Transliterations
by ikkiichiyuu
Summary: He had attained the rights to be the Master of Death, and it was his obligation to steer the fates away from destruction whilst she reaped the souls to fuel Life. (Rewrite of Rewrite. Pun intended.)
1. Chapter 1

**Transliterations**

* * *

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share the worlds that I dream up.**

* * *

_6. A man shall not boast | of his keenness of mind,_  
_But keep it close in his breast;_  
_To the silent and wise | does ill come seldom_  
_When he goes as guest to a house;_  
_(For a faster friend | one never finds_  
_Than wisdom tried and true.)_

_7. The knowing guest | who goes to the feast,_  
_In silent attention sits;_  
_With his ears he hears, | with his eyes he watches,_  
_Thus wary are wise men all._

**_The Poetic Edda, Hovamol, The Ballad of the High One_**

**by Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]**

* * *

He had never quite understood the reasons _why,_ when he had stayed unchanged while the others around him had continued to grow wiser; older, weaker. It had been nearly too late to discover it, once the ripples of the war had settled enough for him to think and meditate. Death no longer influenced his body, and he felt its aftereffects. Life failed to seep away from his body in barely noticed trickles, even as he received debilitating wounds.

But with all his years with the Dursleys, the lesson had been learnt – to _never_ stand out. Glamour over illusion and vice versa, carefully layered and augmented with potions, and Harry lived out his life, cautious in mirroring the common age ailments that those of his age suffered.

But now, he had inklings of those previously unknown reasons, a revelation if it ever was, as he sends his last friend into the unknown.

All Hermione sees is the smiling visage of her parents, forever immortalized in her memory, standing together with an equally youthful Ron. She steps into their outstretched embrace with elegance, barely a glance for her aged body on the bed.

Death was a formless entity. She – he had decided that Death was female – maintained no form till the instance of collecting a soul, appearing as the image that each dying person had envisioned her. she wore different garbs and different skins for each person, looking into their hearts without trouble – a winged angel at times, a skeleton at others, a large Grimm, terrifying spectres, faces of loved ones long past.

Her touch was always gentle, reaping the souls with patience and care, no matter the purity of the soul – rare were the ones drenched with darkness and evil, but the sheer blackness of the taint from that corrupted soul was more than his stomach could bear. There was an aching sort of tenderness as she carefully washed them – absolving the souls of whatever darkness and evil, along with shimmering silver; a precious evidence of living through trials and tribulations.

Those were memories, carved into each and every person – the very events that defined their being.

The Afterlife was the only mystery unknown to him, being barred from moving on to where every soul was gently guided to. She could never reply him with even one word, the barrage of mental images that she sent him in answer were always distorted and blurred, tinged with a whole range of human emotions.

He stood up from his perch at the window, an invisible spectator to the death of his lifelong friend, watching as the hospital staff made their discovery of a cold body in the bed. He was done with the Wizarding World for now, seeing as his friends had all passed on, and that all his children and his godson were already at a point where they no longer needed him.

She lived different lives in so many realms, multifaceted as they were, yet she was one entity. Time and space was no obstacle. Harry could be everywhere at once as well, if he deigned to take note of her presence.

He calls for Death, and takes her outstretched hand.

He was the Master of Death, after all.

* * *

The hospital room warps, and melts away like the lining of frost in the refrigerator with an overpowered heating charm. He finds himself in a cavernous room, walls carved and painted with astonishing detail. He steps closer to study the vibrancy of a painted flower, and revels at the tiny brush marks. A two meter retreat reveals an expansive landscape, depicting greenery that would put Neville's once-famous gardens to shame.

He steps further back, and angles his head to watch as the speckled lush hills give way seamlessly to buildings wrought of gold and silver, forests of green and rich browns, a night landscape with speckled with faint light from stars and galaxies… to the red-hot destruction of the landscape, seemingly ravaged by fire and magma.

And the worst thing is that it sparks the realization that it is not just a painting – _it is the eventual truth of all that is to come_. Beautiful yet terrible, the sheer realism inflicts measures of intangible hurt at the recesses of his soul.

"Few have seen this room, and fewer still have looked upon it for as long as you have. None have committed the truth of this room into their mind, Master of Death."

He turns to the source of the methodical voice, and sees a woman, shrouded in darkness as if the darkest of shadows clung to her like a veil.

"Welcome to Niflheim, Master of Death. I am known as Hel, and I stand in this realm, presiding over the dead of the Nine Realms who hath not passed under the glory of valour." her articulation prevailed of gloom, and she remained immobile, not even shifting or fidgeting, "I carry Her words, for the only words that she speaks is understood by the dead. The Hallows three hath decided on a Master worthy, and Death now implores you to save the balance of the worlds and all the life that it holds, oh Master of Death."

* * *

He slouches onto the banister, and enjoys the view of the vast estate from Hel's abode. The creation of Hel's vast lands came about from the bordering realms of fire and ice, and the perpetual mist and half-light lends a seductive allure on the gardens.

The mists seem to strip everything down – the layers of visual camouflage have been worn thin; glamour and illusion, both magical and potion induced. The wrinkles on his hands, the age spots, and the thinness of his hair are mere memories. It slides over his skin, sapping colour until he looks, for a lack of description, deathly pale, like the many servants that move through the hallways like wraiths

He can feel the constant tug at his life-force, but it is a futile battle. He cannot die, has not aged since that day, and Death is but a companion to him.

"_Thanos… He is born of madness."_

"_The Mad Titan seeks to erase all Life as a tribute to Mistress Death."_

Hel's revelation – or rather, Death's revelation – only served to compound the growing unease that he had been feeling in his heart of hearts. There had been a growing sense of _wrongness_ that only he could feel among all his friends, and now… and now, he knew its source.

"_Mistress Death only works to reap the souls so that life may be born again."_

He knew nothing of the rightful course of actions that could be taken, compared to Death, who had had _purpose _and _direction _since the barest flickers of life all throughout the universe, long before the World Tree had even come into being as a seedling. She had seen the wanton destruction, known its implications, and acted accordingly, crafted objects for other beings to take up the mantle of Protector, but of all the worlds and Hallows and civilizations scattered throughout the vast galaxies and universes, he was the only one who had mastered all three Hallows – the other worlds had either destroyed the Hallows or themselves.

"_Without Life, there is no Death, and there is no Essence for which Life to be born again."_

Thanos was no part of the instrumentations of Life and Death. Sheer destruction of whole worlds affected the balance of life _across_ galaxies, the excess of snuffed lives leading to exponential growth in others, collapsing whole systems.

He had attained the rights to be the Master of Death, and it was his obligation to steer the fates away from destruction whilst she reaped the souls to fuel Life.

"_There is not enough of Essence at hand to delve into the making of Thanos,_

_and Death cannot unmake him."_

He senses Hel at the corner of the balcony, and strangely, she feels so familiar to him, though he has never met her before these revelations of his purpose. He acknowledges her presence, but he does not turn to meet her, "How will I know?"

Hel shifts, and Harry gets the feeling that she's smiling, even if he cannot see it, "There is no one judgment that is solely right, and there is no one decision that cannot be justified, oh Master of Death. Inaction or not, there are consequences."

"_I fear that you may only go back far enough to make Death's unwilling march cease in its footsteps."_

The situation weighs heavy on him, and Harry feels nausea from the bottom of his stomach.

"Fret not, oh Master of Death, for the threads of the Norns shall not encumber you. I shall see you in my far past then, Master of my Master."

He barely has breath for even a word or even a scream when he falls backwards into a void.

There is nothing that he can do. There is no _air_ from which he can draw breath to scream his panic, no medium for which he can channel his magic through. It shifts restlessly in him, trying to seek out the threat that causes the tightness in his chest. It roils like the magma that he had seen long ago, a rare documentary on the telly that the Dursleys had not minded him watching from the closet.

* * *

There is little comfort as he falls into the unending void in between the worlds. Death's heavy presence is a weak anchor, only staying his sanity _after_ he has fallen into insanity each time – a parody of a bungee cord if it ever was. The panic has faded long ago, and it feels he has spent decades, watching stars brighten and fade into the black. He has drifted through clouds of dust and gas, watched the births and deaths of the lights he had once thought to be eternal. He thinks himself into insanity once again with all the 'what ifs', drafting the possible paths in his admittedly short time on Earth – he has spent more time in space now, an eternity to be precise –, and laughs madly when he drags himself out of the insanity again.

Galaxies swim past, and he looks onto the surfaces of the planets, feels their pull, watching as asteroids light up into shooting stars as they enter the atmosphere. The worlds go past, and Harry discovers the true depth of the universe, underneath the dusting of stars and the kaleidoscope of every imaginable colour. He sees the fabric of the universe and the strings of existence that he identifies as _magic_, in its unbridled and untainted form.

He spends an eternity – maybe even two – staring at it, unable to investigate it further. It is all around him, yet he cannot touch it, investigate it, and understand it. Harry has only barely scratched the implications of his discovery when he arrives at his destination.

'Arrival' is a mild way of putting it, and 'destination' even more ridiculous, because his fall through the void has been largely unchartered. Still, it is the only description that comes to mind, especially when he crashes into the ground at high enough speeds to create a crater wide and deep enough to fit the whole of Little Whinging.

He is robbed of his breath, eyes staring into the blue skies above. The immense pain gradually subsides after a torturous amount of time, adrenaline and magic coursing through his veins like a mind-clearing sedative, but the damage remains.

And for all his immortality, he is left helpless as his body and his magic begins to literally pull itself together. It feels like Skele-Grow all over again, except that the nauseating feeling permeates from the very insides of his brain to the surface of his skin. He can literally feel his bones in their attempt to _un-fracture _themselves, and his internal organs slithering back together over each other, his skin itching something uncomfortable as it knits back together.

He breathes shallowly as soon as it is allowed and a little deeper each time when his broken ribs are raised by tendrils of his magic, to avoid creating more damage and flooding his lungs with blood. The ribs are barely held in place, but he takes the deepest breath yet by far, and holds it in.

His mind cursorily acknowledges the sweetness of the air, before formulating a rigorous study of the afflictions along the span of his body. The list is exhaustive, and runs along the definition of horrifying – beyond the catalogue of comminute and oblique fractures, there are torn muscles and ligaments, slow-healing ruptured organs and arteries.

The healing is faster than the average human, but it will take at slightly under two weeks to recover fully, more than a miracle, but it means that he will be trapped in this crater for more than a week. Death stands at the edge of his vision, a watchful albeit translucent sentinel for the better part of the day as the sun scorches his skin. She quickly fades out of his sight as the sounds of clanking metal approach.

"My Lord… this is…"

"Bind him to ensure that he does not escape. He is to be presented to the All-Father as Heimdall as ordered."

The figures are silhouetted by the setting sun, and all Harry can do is concentrate on his breathing. His ribs crack even more when they apply their weight on him to prevent struggling, as if they expect him to exert monstrous force in attempting an escape. Harry blacks out when his still-healing wrists are fractured again by the sheer weight of his restraints.

"_Your thoughts will define the future; your actions will carve those foundations."_

He has been folded over broad shoulders, and Harry consoles himself with the fact that he isn't being dragged across the ground like a carcass, because the terrain that they are traversing is all sharp rocks and dead forest. The blood rushes to his head, and he can feel the veins swelling.

"_I wish you luck, oh Master of Death."_

He awakens a few times to nausea before succumbing to the sweet bliss of darkness, but he keeps himself awake when he is jostled roughly through blinding whirls of light and movement. His 'transport' lands with steady feet, which Harry is thankful for, because another hard knock will not do wonders for his current condition.

"The All-father awaits you in the Throne Room."

"Thank you, Heimdall."

Another wave of black overwhelms him when he is transferred from shoulder to the back of a horse, but Harry swears that the rainbow-covered ground is not a figment of his imagination, even if the nausea and the colours are reminiscent of the effects of Fainting Fancies.

* * *

He jolts awake at the sensation of falling, and Harry barely has the energy to give voice to the _sheer_ pain that screams through his body when he lands on the floor from a great height. The pain blots out his mental processes before it recedes enough to process garbled voices.

"….my King… Heimdall… war grounds… Elven… the one who fell from the skies. We set off for the lands of Alfheim, and found him where Heimdall had Seen. And by his word, we brought him back for your direction."

An unyielding grip pulls at his left arm until he is upright and on his knees.

The recent shock of pain has released enough adrenaline to clear his muddled thoughts, his magic roils deeply instead of healing, and Harry ignores the pain long enough to register the golden hall. There is a man – no, perhaps the best way to describe is – there is a _King_ on the throne, decked out in armour, looking down at him.

"Unbind him."

The shackles come off immediately, and Harry doesn't know whether to be happy or not for the release in his restraints as his wrists snap back. The fractured bones rub against bone and flesh, and a strangled moan of agony makes it out between his clenched teeth.

His head is tilted up, and Harry's eyes snap open to see sky-blue orbs staring into his own. He feels his spine arch to straining point at the intrusion attempt, and Harry forces himself to maintain the mind contact whilst shielding everything but the pain and the truth in his mind.

'**_What are you? For such a youthful visage, your mind is aged, and your veins sing of seidr. What do you seek from the Realm Eternal – power, bloodshed, destruction and death from us Æsir?'_**

Even in his own mind, the king's inner voice is of tempered experience colour with grief, and it brings a foreboding of war, the thirst for blood of his enemies. Years of diplomacy between different Wizarding Colonies have at least hammered home the importance of a starting statement, so Harry replies in deference.

'_I am Harry. I am my own person – I came to your lands through no choice of my own – and despite the hospitality of your men, I am disinclined to bring about suffering or loss of life unless in defence of my own… your Royal Highness.'_

'**_Very well, seidmenn. Tread carefully, lest our weapons make their mark on a deceitful heart.'_**

The connection is broken off, "Bring him to the Healing Chambers. Have Eir attend to him."

"But my King, his eyes are red like the Jötnar. He is the enemy!"

"SILENCE!" The hall falls silent, "his eyes bleed, not unlike a hard blow to the head. He is grievously injured, which is why Heimdall sent you to retrieve him, and his afflictions have been made worse through fetters and harsh travel."

The leader of the protest stammers his apologies, but the King has no heed of it.

The guards move at a more sedate pace, but his escorts are still brutishly strong, and his ribs protest at the frog march. By the time his escorts have brought him to the healing chambers, the route that they have travelled is spotted with blood conceived by violent hacking.

"Eir! Odin All-father has decreed that you attend to him."

Through his hazy vision, maidens – there is only that one word to describe them – appear out of the flowing cloth partitions, dressed in white and flowing material. His mind flutters a bit, and a tiny part of him – that sounds like Lee Jordan – comments that survival rate of Aurors in the field would have improved if all the Healers looked like that.

One of the women steps out from the crowd, "I shall do as the All-father decrees. If you would assist me in getting him onto the bed, honourable guards," gently voiced, but all Harry can see is the flaming red hair, long and gleaming through the sunlight. It is a balm to his hazy vision, and Harry strains to see her face. They set him on the bed none too gently, and as the healers assess his injuries by poking and prodding him, one of them pours a honeyed liquid down his throat.

It washes away the coppery blood clogging his tongue, as well as his awareness. He recognizes Eir purely by the sound of her voice, and the tones of her voice accompany the caressing touches of the healing magicks – it is the only thing that keeps him anchored between drifting off into oblivion and the fleeting pinches of pain.

* * *

It is twilight, but the large window lets in enough residual sunlight to light the large chamber. He stretches his senses out for the innate magic that he has associated with the Æsir, not unlike a fisherman's net; the room is nearly void of life, save the guards at the door… and the lady healer standing at corner of the fabric partitions.

Eir. The shadows come into play upon her face, melding reality with his memories, and the moonlight sets her red hair alight.

He twitches, and she is quick to show her hands, bared to the elbows as a sign of mutual vulnerability, "I mean you no harm, Warrior."

He stares at her for a moment longer, pondering her words, before surrendering the tension in his body. He can barely defend himself at this rate without bringing an entire castle of _Æsir down_ on his head. Something more stays his hand as well – red hair and brown eyes and _memories_ and _heartache_.

She crosses over to his bedside when he relaxes, and Harry allows her to manoeuvre him into a sitting position. His robes are gone, replaced by a loose fitting tunic and pants. He has long passed mortification – it seems that even in different worlds, Healers frown upon bloodied and torn clothes. There was something about hygiene and the works, but usually the pain is too much for him to care about the specifics. She is gentle, but Harry has no disillusions about her strength; if she is indeed cut from the same cloth as the people that he has already met, a flick of her limbs and he would be the only one with broken bones.

She checks him over, and when he savours the air in a deep breath as per her instruction, he is somewhat pleased to find that his lungs are already clear of blood and puncture-free. His bones still ache deeply, the bone tissue is barely healed enough to withstand movement.

She makes him take a mouthful of the sweet liquid from earlier, which sends a wash of warmth through his body. It is a relaxant… and when she asks the first question – _What brings you to Asgard, Warrior?_ – to which his answer is that _he has no idea at all_, the muted alarm bells tell him that it is a form of Veritaserum.

She coaxes him to take another sip, and Harry cannot refuse either draught or interrogation without becoming suspicious; he cannot tell whole lies, so he settles for half-truths. With every sip his body relaxes, so the only giveaway is the tone of his voice and the nuances in his gaze.

That he can do.

"You heal fast."

It could be taken as a mere observation, but Harry plays along and answers with truth in its barest form, "It is… the heritage of my people," his gaze does not flicker, and his voice is firm.

Magic is a heritage, the Hallows are made of magic and the fabric of the universe, and the Three have been passed down from person to person. The fact that he has all Three and the boon-or-bane granted by Death are just one of the unforeseen bonuses.

She interrogates him, and he makes a game out of answering the questions in a roundabout way, telling her of his origins using more euphemisms than Hermione ever had in the lifetime of their friendship. The situation is bizarre, comical even, under the drugging effects of the liquid, but Harry is sure that patient confidentiality is practically non-existent in war times, alien world or no.

"Rest well, Haraldr, Son of Hjortr and Lilju," the last words are strange to his ears, but the meaning _translates_, strange as it is. She calls him Harry, the son of 'the stag' and 'the lily'.

The last sip sends him into deep sleep, because she does not question him any further.

* * *

"The All-father calls upon you, sister," Bjort softly intones, whilst taking over her duties seamlessly, fetching another set of bandages for the man. Eir thanks her, and quickly heads to the door, where the guards lead her to a private meeting room. Frigga is there, smiling placidly at her.

"My King. How may I serve you?"

At their permission, she takes a seat.

"Tell me about the man currently in your care."

There is an impenetrable silence, before Eir takes a deep breath, and composes her thoughts into words.

The man has answered her questions whilst under the sedative draught, and she can sense no blatant untruth in his words. Her patient speaks with variation derived of the Immortal Languages, but some of the words that he uses are lost in translation. He is _Haraldr_, son of _Hjortr_ and _Lilju_. He is seemingly on a search, but has no inkling of what has led him here.

He speaks of war in his youth, and hints at several more afterword, and has the evidence to prove it. He is a true warrior in his own right – the scars on his body are testament to his trials and tribulations – and barely sounds out a protest when the worst of his wounds are prodded at. She tells them of his injuries, how it is a miracle for such a brittle-boned being to survive injuries that would have killed one of them, belonging to the race of demi-gods.

She is mildly surprised when Odin bids her to stay and even consults with herself and Frigga.

He speaks of the clarity of thought and conviction of _Haraldr_'s promises on not harming anyone. He knows a binding promise when he experiences it, and Eir can sense the admiration in her King in the form of the seidr that flows through his veins; normally her King's magic floods forth in aggression, and spikes in the presence of bloodshed.

It is one of the rarer moments when Frigga smiles _and_ asserts her own persuasions, "He will be good for the Realm Eternal, and the sakes of the Nine."

It is not a mere statement; the Queen's eyes are clouded over, as if remembering a long-forgotten dream.

* * *

The second time he awakens from the sedating drugs is just as dawn stretches sunbeams of gold through the windows of the room, his magic stirring uneasily.

The Elder Wand makes its presence known as soon as he wakes; the pockmarked wood pulses with warmth, begging to be used. He gently coaxes it into the ether with the Cloak and Ring and his holly wand before cracking open an eye to survey his surroundings.

A raven is perched on the foot of his bed, quickly joined by another, obsidian feathers glittering in the sunlight. He watches as they hop around and preen each other, keeping at least one sharp eye on him at all times.

It is then that he catches something shifting at the corner of his vision, and the ravens fly toward it. The King stands at the window, murmuring to two ravens perched on his arm before sending them off beyond Harry's field of vision.

"You are awake, Hjortrson," the term niggles at his brain before he realizes that it is what Eir had called him. Son of the stag.

It is more of a call to acknowledge the King's presence than a statement, so Harry replies in acknowledgement, that his speedy recovery has been at the efforts of the healers attending to him.

The king scrutinizes him, and Harry feels as if those eyes are picking him apart, "As you have may have deduced, I am the Sovereign of the Realms Eternal. I am Odin All-father."

Harry keeps his face straight and nods – he had _suspected_, but the revelation is still akin to a punch in the gut – while clamping down on the rising panic of his current situation. He is successful, it seems, when Odin continues.

"We are in times of unrest and unease. The realms whisper of war and each have rallied their warriors. They sharpen their weapons and weave their spells in preparation for the battle cries," the King's voice sounds of resignation and fierce protection.

"You would have enjoyed a better reception by my guard if not for the tidings of war, Hjortrson."

He can see where this is going now; Odin wishes to wrangle at least a pledge, if not an oath. No doubt Healer Eir has reported the vague details of his somewhat prominent involvement in the wars back home, so Harry merely replies that he _understands_ the predicament.

It is the _best_ reaction that he can scrounge up from Odin's I-am-sorry-but-not-really statement, without fudging things up. At best he would end up in the dungeons, and at worst he would be beheaded for his comments, and Harry does not wish to find out the extent of his _immortality_, because he is technically still alive with a body that is for all intents and purposes, _human, _in all its glory, pain receptors included.

It is inevitable that Odin steers the conversation towards the safety of his kingdom, from _intruders_ and bearers of ill will. The roiling unease of the man's magic forces Harry to renew his binding promise, and even extend the reach of his binding oath to the protection of the frail and the helpless.

It is done on his terms, and he has sought to _offer_ the oath of his own interpretation instead of waiting for Odin to outline the conditions of the binding agreements. The offer does not extend to the battlefield because he is wary; it takes more than one party to escalate a war, and he does not know which side he is on.

* * *

Odin grants him leave to wander Asgard the moment the binding oath takes, but Harry doesn't venture beyond the confines of the healing chambers. There is the unspoken understanding that entry to the more _sensitive_ areas is not to be contested, but Harry has neither need for the enchanted weapons that they favour nor the secret inner workings of the Realms Eternal. It is not a conscious choice to do so; his internal injuries are hardly healed and the healers are insistent and far more intimidating than Madam Pomfrey and his first interactions with Snape.

Instead, he watches as they work. The quarters are void of patients – save for Harry – but there are many things to be done even in the lull. Medicinal salves to be made, brew and draughts to by concocted. There are some familiar plants, but he does not have Neville's expertise in botany to judge for himself.

All of them wield wicked-looking blades with startling proficiency, and even though it is used mostly in the preparation of their craft, he has no doubts about their deadliness. His beliefs are mostly confirmed when they acquiesce to his request to see the blades up close – the runic inscriptions are familiar, but he can hardly read the heavily stylized script, if not mainly because of the fact that he has only ever used the Nordic rune set for 'protection' in setting wards. And even then, it was only effective when the property was set on the right lei lines.

The acquisition of knowledge has always been more of Hermione's specialty, whilst his has always been to take action on the immediate relevant and ones, and Harry feels the absence of his lifelong friend more strongly at that realisation. Still, he takes up the task.

He asks them questions, and they are happy to share their knowledge of the healing arts – most probably because the availability of the herbs and roots are near impossible to attain unless one is a Healer – and gladly tutor him in the basics of the runic alphabet. The ranks and stations of the Asgardians are easily denoted by the layers and colours of their clothes, and Harry listens closely; apparently, almost any kind of friction between two parties _can_ be escalated to duels, especially under the influence of alcohol.

It is almost a full week before he is cleared to leave the watchful eyes of the Healers, and Eir escorts him to one of the guest rooms in the lower levels of the castle. It's a stretch to say that the chambers are _humble_, because the room to be his rightly puts his previous 'VIP' accommodations to shame. The ceilings are high enough to make the room cavernous, and the furnishings are made of dark wood and fine fabrics.

Eir leaves him discreetly gawking at the room, but not before emphasizing Asgard's hospitality. All he has to do is ask for directions to the main dining halls, the Royal Library, the gardens, or the duelling rooms.

The bed is about three times larger than what he is used to, and the fireplace brings a wave of nostalgia. The wardrobes are bare, but Harry is no stranger to transfiguring cloth into clothes. He mourns the lack of a modern sanitary facilities, but he can live without them.

He pauses at the stranger staring at him from the other side of the mirror – his features are unbearably _young_, his hair too long, and the sum of his features make him appear to be more boy than man. He hasn't seen this version of himself except in yellowed photographs, and it brings back many memories.

Too many childhood memories, all tinged in regret, grief and guilt. Brief flickers of brilliance and smiles and adventure, made all the more precious in its scarcity.

The situation is far too late for potions; he is sorely lacking in the ingredients department, and scouting for suitable ingredients will have more failures than successes in this alien realm. Layered glamours have always been tricky, and he doesn't know whether the inherent magic in the Æsir will render his 'disguise' useless.

The castle is a sprawl of hallways with twists and turns, but Harry's got it covered; a trail of fairy lights dot the ceiling, like lights specifically for him to return to his chambers. There is one _drawback_ to the ingenuity – the lights follow the path that he has taken, which means that he has to backtrack _all _the way with no shortcuts.

His first meal outside of the healers' chambers is slightly awkward; the blatant staring and subdued conversation that goes on at the table that he has selected doesn't make up for the fact that the food reminds him of the feasts at Hogwarts.

The height disparity is negligible, but next to them, he feels like a scrawny child. An Auror's pride lay – he _is_ a retiree – in speed, magical ability and instincts, but the diagnosis so far is that the average Æsir is less susceptible to injury, and definitely a hell lot stronger than he could ever hope to achieve, judging from the sheer _bulk_ of armour and weaponry. He hightails it out of there the moment he starts feeling full with an intelligible mutter to excuse himself, and makes the decision to seek out the healers' chambers for the rest of his meals in the foreseeable future.

It takes no less than four patrols of soldiers to lead him in the right direction of the Royal Library.

He doesn't expect the vastness of the Royal Collections.

And he certainly doesn't expect the Queen of Asgard to find him nestled in an alcove trying to figure out the language beyond the individual runes and the rare word.

* * *

He senses her presence before he sees her, but his mind only registers the fact that the Queen of Asgard is before him _after_ mentally running through Eir's descriptions of the esteemed Queen. The regal posture, tumbling curls of soft brown, shimmering jewels from the Nine, and resplendent tailored fabrics… there is no other person who could quite fit the image as the healer has described.

A part of him – the part where the Sorting Hat has _seen_ in him so many decades ago, the Slytherin side of him – takes control of the situation immediately, smoothly unfolding his self from the confines of the chair, placing the book on the table with nary a sound. The moves are all calculated, as he steps out from the furniture, keeping eye contact all this while. But then again, growing up has had him seeing different things – things that he had neither noticed nor expected. More caution than courage, tempered from failed negotiations and observations of successful ones.

He bows deeply, right hand over heart, but he doesn't say anything, yet. He _is_ British, and the customs have been drilled into him, by _Petunia_ of all people, on how to greet royalty in the exceptional _rare_ event – _you_ _speak only when spoken to_.

She steps towards him, footsteps light, and touches his shoulder, "Please rise,"

He does so, and she motions him sit on one side of the alcove as she moves to sit on the other.

The conversation starts as most do – the weather as of late, his state of health – after which Frigga requests him to dispense with the formalities. He stops with starting his sentences with the utmost respect, but he doesn't drop her title when addressing her.

He defers to her wishes when he realizes that she already knows of his circumstances – it could very well be common knowledge now – and surrenders himself to further prodding. She treads softly but surely, steering the conversation from mundane things to predictions, of which he answers that predictions are merely products of empirical evidence. Predictions are laughably easy when one knows all the variables, and even more simple – infinitely so – when the results have been replicated.

He moves on to contrast the differences between guesswork and predictions, and she agrees, as if she has known all along. Harry continues with the suspicions in his mind's eye, and sees her body language shift when he mentions _prophecies_. She moves forward just a fraction of an inch, and her hands stop fidgeting in her lap.

Eir may have had the help of that odd truth sedative, but the one before him is a Queen, and it is almost a certainty that she is schooled in the arts of seeing through lies. The game of Slytherins is over; it is in his best interests to refrain from lying, especially if her emotions are transferred over again in an accidental brush of magic.

It's a burst of despair, hope, wariness, openness – a mass of emotions that he has felt countless times.

And her eyes… it's almost as if she expects to see a kindred spirit in him.

* * *

The darkening skies outside accompany the last words of his narrative, doing no wonders in improving the overwhelmingly off-putting atmosphere.

Muffled fanfare echoes then, even within the vastness of the great library, and Harry mirrors Frigga's attempt in exiting the alcove.

"It appears that my husband has returned from his inspection of the artificers of Asgard. Would you join us for the feast? It is an appropriate time for you to be introduced into the court as our Guest."

It seems as offhand a comment can be, but Harry has no plans to alienate himself from the entire populace, much less their Esteemed Queen. He has had enough of solitude and loneliness in that endless falling through the stars.

* * *

It is an uncomfortable place to be, to be seated near the head of the table, closest to the Sovereign. The King and Queen draw eyes from the rest of the hall, and Harry suffers by default as well, even though they hide their suspicion under well-meaning compliments.

He is young by their judgment, and they assume that attention and affection is something that he sorely needs, having travelled far. Dark hair is a rare sight in Asgard, so they comment on the unusual lustrous black, not unlike the King's ravens. They compare his eyes to the finest of Dwarven emeralds, a color that they have yet to see in another's eyes.

Then the bombshell is dropped.

Odin All-father has proclaimed him a new addition to the Royal Court, as an independent advisor. The chatter as well as protests are silenced by the thump – which Harry could duplicate with a variation of the Sonorous Charm, now that the silence allows him to finally think – of the King's hand against the table, and quelled when the King reinforces his statement.

The food comes in then, and the mood resets itself. Jokes, jests and jeers are thrown up and down the table, boisterous camaraderie between warriors. Ladies of the court share glances, giggles and whispered words. The entire atmosphere feels alien to him, even as he watches how they try to draw him into the fold, when he clearly knows nothing of the past wars and glorious battles.

He is loath to follow their customs when it comes to dining, choosing instead to use the cutlery provided over the warriors' choice – full-fingered grasping of the succulent roasted meats. It is a safety precaution; he would rather his wand to be in a firm grip if he needs it right away – perhaps to levitate one of these Norse Vikings should they fly his way – than do a flick and swish and end up impaling someone's eye.

The food is more like ash than the savoury taste that he has sampled from before, the mead is laughably weak and watery in comparison to Firewhiskey, and he is at a loss.

There is no conceivable way for him to _not _stand out anymore.

* * *

The feast has ended, and he follows the King and Queen to a more private setting.

They've backed him into a corner with that declaration, and Harry has the urge to do only one thing, except that he cannot quite figure out how to take on the whole army of Asgard after a successful attempt at regicide.

He stands until they have seated themselves, only taking a seat when they gesture, and keeps his eyes averted.

"I give you leave to speak, Hjortrson," it is not so much as permission, but the prelude to an order.

"_With all due respect, _Your Royal Highness, I find myself unable to articulate the situation you have put one such as myself in," the first part is an insult, but one that many do not get, unless they are British. It works just as well in calming himself down, a petty dig because they do not _understand_.

* * *

The apple weighs heavily in his hand, both literally and figuratively. It weighs about as much as an apple fashioned from goblins' gold, and is most likely the source of the Æsir's youthful visage, incredible density and enormous strength.

Eating the apples on a regular basis will help him to cope with living on Asgard if Odin is to be believed, but it will also make him one of them in terms of identity. He is already immortal, unlike their inherited longevity, but by eating it, he will be recognized as Asgardian. There is not much of a choice, anyway; if he does not eat this first apple, he will be cast out within the week, as a stranger. Odin has already made the choice for him, and Harry finally sees the king for the shrewd man that he is.

He deliberates, but the decision can only be made with more information, and he is one against an entire realm, unless he eats the apple.

He finds his way to the healing chambers in search of Eir.

* * *

She thinks about his words from before, the conversation in the library. He had held himself well, and though his gestures were odd at times, they were of politeness and deference. The conversation had been pleasant, but he was extremely astute with regards to her concerns.

"_I am not a prophet, your Majesty, but there were many prophets throughout the histories of the many Kingdoms of my world. Prophecies were made, and many forgotten, and the few preserved were dredged up only after the time of prophecy."_

His world was vast, it seemed. The Realm Eternal was under the rule of one king.

"_There were stories of true prophets, cursed by their gifts until their kingdom fell into ruin, for no one would believe a single word. Others led kingdoms to their doom, for the gift of their sight was retracted following the corruption of their hearts. There were false prophets as well, proclaiming the end of the world, their words made believable only through their eloquence."_

His words had resounded with knowledge, long hours of scouring through history with purpose.

"_But my people were different. The prophecies uttered were made secret, sealed away from all minds, even by the ones who had given voice to them. There were great Seers, who proved the accuracy of their gifts time and again, but their bloodlines faltered under expectations. To this day, I only know of two which came true in my lifetime."_

"_The second one was privy to mine own ears, and it came true."_

There was a story behind that one, but he doesn't linger upon the topic.

"_The first one was overheard by a man of knowledge seeking power, what he heard was incomplete in such that there were many ways to interpret it. The sacred practice was broken, and the information was passed on to a corrupted mind, a man who sought power through knowledge, and freedom from Death."_

"_He disliked the idea of Death, that it was an ugly thing. That it was weak to succumb to Death. But the root of kindness to others lies forevermore in mortality, and in his quest of never dying, he ceased to never live as well, forever caught in the boundaries of life and death, always subconsciously destroying lives to sustain his state of non-death."_

"_It was obsessed over, and the prophesied became the eventuality."_

"_The prophecy involved two, a man who sought destruction, and a child who had not yet known the evils of the world. He was vanquished no less than eight times in a span of eighteen years, and with each loss of his fractured soul, he took something from that child."_

"_I was a martyr when I was a child, and I was forever so in their eyes."_

His eyes were full of knowing.

"_A prophecy is merely a destination in time. There is no context to it, until the actions of our own hands come into play. The actions of other beings, other minds, those who try to make it happen, those who try to prevent it…"_

She could tell no one of her prophetic dreams, only able to dream of them night after night.

His arrival had affected her dreams of late, and it was no common occurrence. Her dreams were prophetic, which told of the unchangeable future, and his arrival left her dreams shifting. It was as if his arrival had shown her all the possibilities of the future.

But one thing was certain – she no longer woke up with unshed tears in her eyes.

"_So you see? A prophecy is a mere point on the path of fate."_

* * *

"I have an obligation to my King before you, Hjortrson," her voice is soft as always, and with that subtle note of calming.

Harry thanks her, and makes to leave through the doors when he hears her last sentence, "But it would be wise to keep your mastery of seidr a secret for now."

It is a reminder, because he has seen nothing but sharp edges and polished metal. There is not a hint of magic in this realm, except for the All-father and the Healers.

The hour grows late, and Harry makes a tactical decision – magic is most likely not encouraged, but he can take a page from the Weaseley twins.

_(You can do whatever you want to… the only thing to be mindful of is to never get caught. The only reason why we get caught is because of the recognition we get.)_

His Cloak and holly wand summoned from the ether, he spells his boots to be silent, and traverses the hallways in search of another source of information. The cloak and charms work, to his relief, as the armoured patrols pass him with nary a glance or twitch.

He finally finds a suitable person – one of two sentries positioned beside a sizeable door – the line of vision coincides with Harry's across the hallway, and the man is clearly bored out of his mind. A few charms ensure that the man is relaxed with eyes open, a parody of sleep, albeit with eyes open.

He sends tendrils of legilimency through, carefully watching for any cause for alarm. The probe takes without any problems, and he begins to investigate with Eir's caution as a starting point.

_Seidr._

Otherwise known to him as _magic_.

* * *

'_The House of Odin is a great one, for it is under the Sovereign of the Realm Eternal. Under the Banner of Ravens, the warriors bask in the glory of serving the King and Queen of Asgard. He is one such warrior, and he hopes to work up the ranks to serve his King as a personal guard.'_

Harry files away the titbit for further contemplation; it is hardly useful in figuring out his decisions.

'_He will be able to bring his clan honor then – as a second son, he has been drafted into the King's army just like many others. His elder brother has inherited the clan's occupations, a tedious position, continually seeking traction between the textile markets of Asgard and Alfheim.'_

Not useful at all.

'_He is glad for the brother born after him, who has not the barest hint of seidr, and has finally managed to apprentice himself to a tannery. It is hard labour, but it is an honest work. His family would have been put to shame had his brother showed an affinity for the womanly arts.'_

There it is. He fixates on that bit of information, searching around for more. It is engrained into the family dynamics of this guard whose mind he is in right now, and it is a common mind-set from what he gleans.

'_Seidr. Trickery, fraud, unmanly.'_

The connotations are strong. Harry watches as the guard's past childhood fascination with the fantastical conjurations of seidr practitioners warp into ugly feelings of deceit and trickery. It is a lowly craft to these demi-gods, who have nearly an eternity – compared even to a wizard's life – to perfect physical craftsmanship.

And yet, the All-father is King, the first man that Harry knows has at least a substantial grasp of magic in his mastery. He leaves the man's mind, casting memory charms, leaving the guard to startle out of his assumed daydreams. His chambers have not been breached by anyone else, and Harry settles into the alcove, watching the unfamiliar night skies as he contemplates his position.

His hand has truly been forced. He is unwilling to take up the mantle of an '_independent advisor'_, but he balks at the idea being thrust into the threat of war between what seems to be several Realms with nothing at his back.

The apple tastes sweet against his tongue, and he can feel the '_heaviness'_ of it seep into his bones. Strengthening, reinforcing, refreshing. Mind, body, soul, _magic_.

Death has lingered in his vision for a handful of times, but She has given no indication that he is to leave Asgard anytime soon.

He would play Odin's game, for now.

_And he would give as good as he got._

* * *

**Much condensation of the chapters, no? Tweaked a lot, actually. More polished.**

**A continuation of the story is still in the works, but I wouldn't hold my breath, really.**

**Comments, anyone?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Transliterations**

* * *

**I give as good as I get.**

* * *

If Asgard runs like clockwork, then its mechanisms are the likes of something that Harry has never adapted to before – daylight hours spanning far longer than that of his human memories, yet infinitely shorter than his eternity-long grand tour through the galaxies – something he will have to get used to if he is to act like an Asgardian. _Like one;_ he isn't one.

It is but a few scant hours after dawn breaks, but the sun has barely cleared the horizon when he answers the knock at the door only to be greeted by an army of clothiers, courtesy of Frigga. They push their way into the room while dragging him into the center of the room. Measurements are taken meticulously, and they puzzle over the cut of his clothes and the lack of stitches. There are no seams or stitches in his clothes with the exception of the ones put in for decoration – everything is melded together_, nothing for the catching fingers of briars and sharp branches if he ever has to stumble his way through again_.

He redirects their attentions elsewhere by flattering them, stating that with his people the craft of clothiers is well guarded, and he doesn't expect Asgard to be any different, knowing well enough to keep any mention of magic and transfiguration secret for now.

It is true – all the clothing, even for Muggles, is kept well out of sight during manufacture.

They leave him with a hefty selection of pre-made linen garments with the closest fit to his stature, after a brief but logical explanation of the layers. It is just as well – he has grown weary of cleaning charms and transfiguring clothes.

Harry looks at the selection thoughtfully, recalling the random titbits from the soldier's mind last night[i]. The colours that they have presented to him are in the entire spectrum of their beliefs. The cloths used are in varied shades of vibrancy; red, blue, green, yellow, white, black, with embroidery for contrast and variety, sometimes including gold and silver threads.

The gold and reds are out; he is neither of Asgard nor a warrior in their terms. Blue is representative of Odin, an allegiance that he would rather not enforce as an _independent advisor_. He has never looked good in yellow, and the white fabrics are already as white as his skin, an aftereffect from the realm of Hel.

He smirks at the _practical_ choices that he has left _– he has never felt so Slytherin _– let it not be remembered that he has failed to declare his alignment with the magic that they so _condemn_. Decision made, he swishes his wand to change the colours of his garments. Dark greens and blacks, the colourful embroideries shifting to white, silver and gold. Charms to ensure their fit, scanning charms to ensure their integrity, protection charms to guard against sharpened metal and intent to harm – all standard practices he has honed over a long time.

_A new beginning, hidden knowledge, all concealed from plain sight._

He has little else to guard his back.

* * *

[i] Gold - The brilliance of the sun and spiritual light shining from Asgard.

Red - Magical might and main,protective power, spiritual life and vigor, aggressive force.

Blue - The all-encompassing, all penetrating, and omnipresent mystical force of numen, a sign of restless motion, the color of Odhinn's cloak.

Green - Organic life, a sign of earth and nature, passage between worlds.

Yellow - Earthly power.

White - The total expression of light as the sum of all colors totality, purity, perfection, nobility.

Silver - The disk of the moon, striving for higher knowledge.

Black - New beginning ( as night and winter herald the birth of day and summer), all potential, the root of all things, knowledge of hidden things, concealment, the container of light.

* * *

**Impressions and comments, so that I know what to include and improve, not just 'update soon' and all that jazz.**

**Feedback loops are important.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Transliterations**

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**I have to say, I'm glad for the reviews and kind words. Now that I know your concern and views, I can address them directly. Some of the answers to some of the reviews are somewhere in the following section.**

**Too much detail? _Whatevs, darlings_. Here's the plot summary for Harry so far, for those who think reading tiring: PTSD, touchdown in Asgard, BOOM, things happen!**

**The theme of these few chapters has been about 'self-discovery' topics that we ourselves face – choices, death, ethics, discrimination, war. There is a touch of the 'original sin', now that I think about it. Fundamentals to my story, because I too do not believe in useless things.**

**I've never really believed in just dropping a character into whatever-the-mind-comes-up-with!verse. I'm doing my best to link up the two worlds. Eleven year-old Harry and even seventeen year-old Harry would never have even considered attempts on focusing on 'Slytherin' qualities, least of all using magical and non-magical advantages to mess with others.**

**What you're seeing here is basically Harry, the one who has fought wars, the one who has seen the last of his friends die of old age (and wizarding folk live for quite a while), the one who has fallen for a long time. He has had many life-changing experiences, and he is making choices that will ultimately culminate into the future outcomes, and how others will perceive him later on in this fic.**

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_142. Then began I to thrive, | and wisdom to get,  
I grew and well I was;  
Each word led me on | to another word,  
Each deed to another deed._

**_The Poetic Edda, Hovamol, The Ballad of the High One_**

**by Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]**

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**Note: Much time-skipping in between the section breaks!**

The first deliberative assembly of the Royal Court that he attends is one that is definitely impromptu; two days after Odin's announcement, and he would rather call it a pissing contest than anything else, given that he is informed of the meeting approximately two hours before the start. Entirely too little time to prepare for, and nearly too much time for panicking… had he not been subjected to similar circumstances in the past.

So he dresses in the finest clothes that the clothiers have left with him, keeps his mental shields up, all the while organising his information on Asgard, even as he makes his way to the assembly. The members of the meeting have already gathered when he walks in and greets the king as he did Frigga two days ago – a deep bow, hand to the heart.

They watch him warily, as he takes the seat at the end of the table, where Odin meets his eyes across the table. Harry is somewhat impressed with what passes for their semblance of patience – it is no more than one minute after his formal inductions after which the barbed questions begin.

It is an interrogation once again, and he can practically feel the amusement radiating from the King. It is not so much intimidating, but it is _annoying_. Nevertheless, he has learnt from the best, and been put through much practice, so much so that deflecting the lion's share of the probing questions with amiable smiles is easily achieved. The context of their questions can be gleaned easily from their body language and surface thoughts, and the rest he makes up for it with smoke and mirrors.

He imagines it to be remarkably similar to the instance of anticipation in declaring 'mischief managed' by the Marauders and the Weaseley twins. The only information that they manage to glean from him is that _no, he is not of Jötnar descent, yes, he is of noble heritage – _because he is the Lord of both the Potter and Black Houses.

The table is both jealous and envious of his appointed position in the courts, and thinly veiled with their seething thoughts, and the rest of the meeting quickly devolves into chaos when he finally loses his patience, and lets loose a mild fear-inducing hex in retaliation to the increasingly aggressive slights to his person and apparent age. The commotion that ensues is more of an explosion-imminent-let-us-diffuse-it-and-blow-up-more-issues kind of a meeting, insults thrown all around until his presence is more or less forgotten, or more probably ignored, because he has unnerved them.

The next assembly is scheduled tentatively in a year's time by the time they can reign themselves in – apparently there is nothing of import to discuss among such long-lived lives. It is as well; he has time to prepare for the courtly matters of Asgard the next time he sees them.

He doesn't get up when the meeting is adjourned; just watches them as they leave the hall, and he is quick to send them a placid smile when they glance back at him, skimming their thoughts through those milliseconds of eye contact.

.

He isn't surprised at the slight paranoia in their thoughts – very few are fearless of the unknown, and all of those few are fools – and he won't be when the _noble lords_ do spread malicious untruths about him like the Dursleys.

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The door closes with a finality of sorts, right behind the exit of the members of the Royal Court, and Harry gets up from his seat. He doesn't move to the closer seats on either side of the King; he is neither the right-hand man nor the left-hand man of the King. Odin sees him as a tool, bound and leashed by two Oaths reinforcing each other. Not an Unbreakable Vow, but he is compelled to keep to them nonetheless. He keeps eye contact with Odin –

_Deep bow, right hand over heart._

"Rise, Haraldr,"

– and straightens himself, and makes eye contact while he keeps his silence.

"Be at ease. Take a seat. You may speak freely," Harry resists the urge to _bark_ – because _he's such a good boy_! – and acquiesces. He only plays these games of silence because he knows that all men here are used to the blustering of others bedecked in metal and hide, and fumble when faced with silence.

"What would you _wish_ to hear, All-father?"

_Truths, half-truths, outright lies, nonsensical strings of words, he has experienced it all, enough times to replicate it without a single flaw._

He watches the King frown at the specifically worded sentence, "I will hear your thoughts on the members of the Royal Courts then."

"Very well." is all he says before launching into the details that he has gathered along the duration of the tedious meeting.

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The wind blows in his face, sharp and biting in its coldness, but easily taken care of by a marriage between shielding and heating charms. He turns his face upwards, watching the sheer brilliance of the billions upon billions of stars suspended in the black velvet.

It is odd to look up and not see any of the constellations that he has marked in blank star charts once upon a time, and perhaps odder still to see the stars from the ground, after his eternity-long jaunt through the universe.

The stars blink tirelessly back at him, scattered in random spatters across the heavens.

He makes a vague resolution to look up constellations and astronomy in the library, and decides that _maybe, just maybe, it is for the best that he cannot read ahead through the stars_; somewhere in the vast universe of stars and galaxies, he cannot see if Mars burns bright on the nights of bloodshed.

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There are interesting morsels of information nestled in the books, and they have given him several measures worth of ideas in the integration of what he knows and what he's read so far. He can imagine Hermione's excitement in the texts that he is reading now, all ancient magic and 'restricted' warnings practically oozing from the covers.

"Haraldr Hjortrson?"

He sighs inwardly at the interruption – _because if this keeps up, it is likely that he will never be able to peruse even a single manuscript in the Royal Library without interruption_ – but he still maintains an outward façade of calmness and conduct, slipping in a newly-conjured bookmark made from his magic before closing it. The bookmark serves as an anchor, as he Vanishes it, book and all, into the ether right next to the Hallows.

"Your search for him has ended. I am he. May I enquire the reasons for your quest…?" He trails off, and the statuesque stranger is quick to provide his name.

"Hallvarðr. I am the Weapons Master of the guards, and I have been tasked with your knowledge of defence." 'Rock defender', a fitting name if it ever was, Harry muses, even as he resigns himself to the 'wishes of the All-father'.

_If only their 'defence' consisted of shield charms and nothing more_, he rues, because the last experience with a sword has left him too-real memories of poison from the King of Serpents running through his very veins.

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He doesn't bat an eyelid at the news – that several members of the Royal Court are under investigations – when it sweeps the entirety of Asgard the next morn, and the chatter that follows with each rebound ripple from the results of three weeks of stringent investigations. Instead, he splits his time between the Royal Library and the company of Frigga, of which both locations are filled with the lack of interest in the subject that rages through Asgard like Fiendfyre.

One is branded publicly as svikari and subsequently sentenced to execution by passage over the seemingly endless waterfalls of the edge of Asgard in a month. Two are scheduled for another hearing, but the wind carries whispers, that they will be banished for inflicting grievous hurt to innocent parties.

Three walk free, but none escape without feeling haunted and humbled. _Perhaps_, he muses, _that the Chinese proverb rings true, that 'the heart keeps track of all its deeds'**[**_**_一_****_]_**_._

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He moves along the hallways with his boots charmed silent, integrating the physical evidence of his five senses to his sixth sense – his magic trails tendrils along the invisible nooks and crannies of the stone walls. From time to time slight crumbs of magic he finds, but most of them stale from age.

He stops outside one of the grand halls, and explores with his mind. Foreign blood, remnants of crushed healing stones, silvers of metals from great weapons, are not uncommon things that he finds within Valaskjálf – _the Shelf of the Slain_, truly a morbid name for the hall for a King to rule his Kingdom from – where the great throne seats the All-father during his observations of the universe. There are people inside the hall, but there is nothing but meaningless cheer and feasting.

It holds no interest to him, so he moves past the doors, only to startle a young servant girl walking out one of the side doors. The din of large golden platters crashing to the ground follows after the foot-high jump and startled yelp, and the floor is wet with the remnants of food and drink.

The frightened look on her face comes into being when she realises his attire, and she profusely apologises to him, addressing him as 'Milord'. Her expression morphs to confusion when he forgoes all of her blubbering and asks if she is hurt. It reminds him of the blind servitude of House Elves, and Harry takes a step back and takes a deep breath. She makes to gather the fallen items, but he stops her. Wandless magic is marginally easier now, and repairing charms come to him easier; after decades of smashing and pranking, repairs and levitation feats are no more than a wave of fingers anyway.

Her eyes go wide when a stack of platters floats before her; unfinished food nestled in between the stems of the previously shattered goblets.

He walks off in favour of any other action, only to stop dead in the hallways no less than five minutes later with a sudden realisation that he has just broken the equivalent Statute of Secrecy that Eir has warned him about.

He gives a mental shrug.

The cat is out of the bag anyway, and the Asgardians' rumour mill is nothing short of lightning-quick, so he might as well _let it run loose_. There have been a few experiments between spell work and the fabric of the universe that he's been eager to test out, and his quarters are far too small.

It snows sparkling _confetti_ for a week in one particular corridor – an interesting but completely bizarre outcome from one of his spell hybrids – but if the King and Queen suspect him of it, they don't show the slightest hint of it.

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The sneak blow has _nothing_ on his senses – the sensitivities to changes in his surroundings from the business end of hostile spell work has been rightfully honed – but his reflexes are slowed by the slab of steel that passes for a blade.

He turns around, only to be dealt a rib-crushing blow to the side, sword too slow in meeting the bite of steel. He's winded by the force of the blow and the sheer pain even through the protective armour and spelled tunic, so much so that it's a _good thing_ – because many choice curses come to mind, all in different languages, but none of them are gentle in meaning, and all of them are at least understandable as an insult, with all of the people in the training room fluent in the Immortal Languages.

He nearly drops the sword, fingers already numb from countless parries, muscles burning with lactic acid. His ribs will be fine; strengthened by Iðunn's apples and fortified with magic, but his ego is not. He sends a rush of magic to his extremities, wrapping them in tendrils of sheer magic, operating his digits to move – much like a puppeteer.

He stares at Hallvarðr in the eye, "Again."

They continue until his lungs give out on him.

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He maps out the entirety of the dungeons with his magic on his visit to Skári – it is unexpectedly uniform in its construction, and the entire prison has impeccable warding runes in indestructability; so much faith put into these dungeons that no guards prowl its depths – on the night before his execution date, and watches the man as he teeters on the edge of insanity in the deepest corner of the dungeons, fetters of Asgardian and Dvergar steel clinking noisily.

"Skári Ránnulfrson."

The man twitches from the sudden sound, clearly panicking when he sees nothing in front of his prison. Harry steps into the flickering light of the torches, and observes the manic light of in Skári's eyes when he sees the Independent Advisor. The only other one that now has the power to persuade the All-father to rescind the sentence passed.

The words that come out of the death-row prisoner are forged from desperation; promises and bribes that serve no purpose other than to dig his grave deeper than the bottomless pit that it already is.

"Skári Ránnulfrson," he speaks softly this time, and Skári shuts up this time, "Do you know what your name means in my language? It means 'common seagull', who is son of 'the plundering wolf'. It is not a bad name on all accounts – both are creatures of intelligence, capable of communication and clarity. And yet, they are lacking in concern for other lives in the light of their own and immediate family. Scavengers, if you could put it kindly."

Skári pushes forward with information on his binding oath, the one affording protection to the helpless and the frail – _he is well and truly helpless, is he not? – _and Harry belatedly recalls that there had been two Healers in the adjoining room that quiet night, and the doors leading out to the hallways left ajar, and not even a silencing charm surrounding the conversation with the King.

_There are eyes and ears everywhere, Harry! This is insurance, even in our own home._

He casts two dome-shaped Shield charms then and there, making sure to suck out all the air between the two spells. The air-tight space goes silent, save for the sounds of breath and Skári's yelp of fear at the sensation of his magic casting.

Harry takes a deep breath, trying to quell the mounting rage, "You… dare to plead your case after slinging mud at my name. You dare to utter such words after harming the truly frail and helpless? Lives have been lost, but not before all hope was taken from them."

The man before him stills completely as he realises that his misdeeds have been known, "But… there were no _witnesses_."

"_Au contraire_, Ránnulfrson. You remain as a witness to your crimes," he pauses, feeling the Ring come into existence on his index finger at the mere thought of it, and returns it back into the ether, "and even with your death, the truth will come to light. Death collects the memories of the dead, and memories are incapable of _lies_."

Skári pales further at his following declaration, "The only moment that I deem you frail and helpless in this body is the instance where your bones have been dashed to pieces at the bottom of the Endless Falls, a hair's breadth away from death, when I am too distant to feel your distress."

"I bid you good morrow, Skári Ránnulfrson. I hope that the day dawns fair and bright, that you will see the fabled brilliance of the falls that few have experienced, where none live to tell the tale. _Goodbye_," he turns and walks out of the man's line of vision, before letting the Cloak fall into existence around his shoulders.

He does feel something later the next day – but better described as a lightning-quick blight on his sixth sense, leaving him weak-kneed – long moments after the boat ferrying the svikari falls over the far edge. It burns against his senses; Asgard is a place that does not see much death, so he has been made more sensitive to the taking of souls.

It is no compulsion to save the frail and the weak – he must be physically present in the vicinity – but Death disappears from the corner of his vision.

Skári Ránnulfrson is dead.

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He spends most of his mornings reading in the Royal Libraries, enjoying the written works of the Nine Realms. The other fraction of his time is spent in the tutelage of Frigga or the Healers. Frigga knows of many things, times of peace and wide open gates, of halls open to beings and creatures of ever shape and size, all memories of times of yore, unlikely to return. Before treachery, jealousy and suffering wiped the memories of peace and joy from every mind and infused revenge in the gaping maw. The ascension of a Prince to a King, returning after a long journey to find father and brother slain in underhanded fashions.

She remembers long forgotten events that no one else does, and there is enough sorrow in her eyes to know that those times of yore are never present in her prophetic dreams.

He learns the art of weaving from her as well as the healers, weaving seiðr and meaning into words and tunes and song, much like intent and swishes and flicks placed into wand movements. But _this_, _this_ is old magic, precursor to curses and blood magic, long before the segregation into Light and Dark, harnessed directly from the fabrics of the universe. Frigga has her loom, the healers their soothing voices and herbs, but Harry finds out that he can achieve the same with his hands and intent, a skill drawn from his _heritage_.

Weapons' practice is held every few days in the afternoons when either himself or Hallvarðr can afford the time, and it makes his fingers shake and muscles twinge far too much afterword to enjoy anything that requires fine motor skills. But he is slowly getting used to hefting the absurd behemoth of steel that Hallvarðr calls a training sword in the basic forms, and even steadily working his way up, faster than his mentor expects, but then again, Asgardians have more than enough time to be skilled in their chosen craft, and he has been living a human's lifespan, where every moment is significantly more precious than that of a near-immortal.

But today is different.

The exterior of the castle calls out to him today; the sun is flooding the gardens with warm rays. It's a pity that he doesn't have any of his brooms – he would even settle for a Cleansweep, all that matters is soaring high above the confines of his flightless physiology.

The garden is relatively private, so he settles on a patch of soft grass to look into the endless skies, where the clouds roll slowly across the sea of blue. If he closes his eyes, he can remember the rare days of sunshine in his homeland. The wind combing his hair back with its fingers, pulling the folds of his robes so much so that it feels like _freedom_.

He is jolted out of his half-slumber when not-quite-whispered voices break into his bubble of solitude. The warmth recedes, the clouds obscuring the sun.

"There! He doesn't look as scary as the rest said he was! Lifa said he helped her with the broken goblets all those months ago, don't you remember?"

"But he doesn't feast with everyone else in the great halls, so why would he be there to help her? Snorri said that he journeyed from the realm of the dark elves, that's why he's all pale skin and black coloring. And that he eats the hearts of those who cross him, and drinks blood from goblets made from the _skulls_ of his enemies!"

The children start to squabble, and he can't quite help but chuckle mirthlessly at the rumours that surrounds his reputation. Rumours passed on by word of mouth embellished with each telling – all he had eaten and drunk during the assembly all those months ago was an apple and a goblet filled with water.

"Shhhh. He'll hear you!"

Briefly, he wonders if he had been like that when he was eleven, getting into all sorts of trouble as a trio, "And _he _hears you, little ones."

They squeal and run when he gets up, _and it's mildly entertaining_, but he refrains from quoting a few choice lines by the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk, and instead catches all four boys with a wandless _Wingardium Leviosa._

"Now, why have you followed me here?" He keeps a straight face as they flail in the air. The levitation charms hold them in the exact same spot, at eye level, and no matter how they try to squirm, they still remain a good half a meter from the floor.

The conversation starts with a predictable, "Please don't eat us!" and then they stare at him like they really, _really_ believe that he eats hearts and drinks blood. From the skulls of his enemies, no less.

They are young, _impressionable_. Nobility in their bloodlines, all from the House of Odin, and slated to become warriors, judging by the cut of clothes they wear. The many layers of leathers and metal plating will be earned, year and year, challenge by challenge. Heavy responsibilities to be matched by the stifling layers.

It will not do to contradict their upbringing, so he will forget their names after this encounter.

_(Past childhood fascinations with the fantastical conjurations_

_warping into ugly feelings of deceit and trickery under the heavy_

_layers of leather, metal, blood and… souls)_

They plead their case of curiosity, and he listens, and then of the Lifa that they spoke about. He pretends to think, and then dismisses them with infinite care to show carelessness in his of them dismissal. They scramble off, glad that the _scary_ sorcerer has not yet worked up an appetite for hearts, livers or blood.

He _should_ scare them straight – because they will be warriors in the future, and in Asgard, warriors do not associate themselves with the common staffs in the kitchens, much less male practitioners of seiðr, because things turn into rumours, and rumours can be easily turned into Death hanging over their heads. Witch-hunts, lynching mobs, and the like. Harry has a hold over Death, but he cannot prevent the events leading to it. He cannot prevent rumours and suspicions and the secret inner workings of the minds of Asgardians. Not yet, not at the moment, that is. He wields the façades of power and mystery, but he needs it to solidify before he can change the ancient mind-sets of Asgard.

But he doesn't. Because the passage of time will do that for him.

He then spends two hours later that day, in the dead of the night casting countless charms. The bulk of it are repairing and strengthening charms – the kitchens have amassed enough ruined gold dining utensils in the hopes that he will repair it instantaneously, instead of sending them to the smithies to be melted and recast as their original purpose.

Not a word is spoken between himself and the staff of the kitchens, but he does get hot food sent up to him by Lifa – fair payment for the monthly chores and 'petty tricks' that he performs. The boys he sees once or twice afterward, but they are adorned with the beginnings of young warriors, and have long since stopped trying to tail him.

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The chill in the air has been present for some time now, and with the thickening of each morning's frost, the sense of anticipation and thrill grow. He hasn't been up to date with the going-ons recently, attention absorbed by a certain celestial body, the third one revolving around a star.

"Winter Solstice," Eir tells him, and continues to elaborate, amusement colouring her voice when she realises that he doesn't even have the barest beginnings of an idea of what goes on during the Solstice. But he does, the more she speaks of it – their Sunwheels are the Christmas wreaths in his memory, and actual logs carved with runic wishes are the yule log cakes in his time.

They look sceptical when he offers to furnish the entire hall, but he persuades them to stop their work. There are so many parallel similarities, that he astounds Frigga and the rest of the seiðr weavers when he helps out with the adornments in the main Halls.

He doesn't reproduce the glowing fairies, but settles for floating fairy lights. Enchanted snow drifts down from the ceiling, and melts without a trace even before it reaches the floor. Instead of trees, there are boughs upon boughs of holly, and sunwheels decorating the sides of the great hall.

It is his personal opinion that he hasn't managed to outdo the Christmas decorations in the Great Hall itself, but he can do better next time. For now, it is quite worth it to see people walk into each other as well as tables and benches because their gaze is stuck to the ceiling.

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He keeps his eyes unfocused before him, barely registering the faint flares of light under his feet until he nears his destination.

The voice is resonant, even in the empty space, "Haraldr Hjortrson."

"Gatekeeper," he replies in acknowledgement, before falling silent. He perches on the edge of the bridge, looking down into the endless depths. He can feel the revulsion crawling up his legs, sticking in his calves like a deep seated ache.

"What _do_ you see, Heimdall?"

"A single dew drop falling from a blade of grass a thousand worlds away. The Dvergar forges in a shower of light and heat as a hammer strikes metal. I see all, Haraldr Hjortrson."

His head turns to watch the Gatekeeper, making sure that Death is in the corner of his vision, "Are we alone on the Bifröst?"

"Yes." Without hesitation whatsoever.

Harry leaves, walking to the end of the bridge where Eydís awaits.

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She turns her gaze to the sable haired man reading silently in front of her, the one whom the wind carries many whispers about – of how Haraldr Hjortrson can instil fear in the hearts of men just by looking at them, or how he now wields weapons with proficiency that he has never had prior to his arrival in Asgard.

Frigga has never seen those sides of Haraldr, but she knows that he is a broken person, not unlike a handful of men who return from war, those who throw themselves into work just to stop their thoughts from wandering into more unpleasant memories. His hands are in constant motion – when they are not occupied in the weaving of seiðr or the reading of books, his fingers tap a staccato beat along his leg. The young man doesn't smile at all, only a mere twist of his lips in reaction to a situation that should be funny to him.

But sometimes, she sees a shadow of the young man in front of her, when he asks questions, or recreates astonishing weaves of seiðr from his world. So she will accommodate him in this aspect as far as she can, for his services and sacrifices rendered to the kingdom, by listening to his recounts and questions and answering them as best as she can

She doesn't know of any other way to save this lost soul, because he seems so distant even when he is sitting right in front of him.

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They have recently worked out a system, the two of them – Death and he.

It's a cross between sign language and visual communications; she uses both to reply his questions, and he uses the latter when he is in the company of others and prefers not to be thought of as crazy. She doesn't really understand the concept of 'letters' or 'words', and more often than not she answers his questions with misleading gestures.

It's not a perfect system, especially when it's a series of trial-and-error attempts to communicate with a being whose only interaction with living beings is the instance where She takes souls and life away. Their mind-link is a flimsy strand of spider's silk – strong yet weak – but it's the best that they can do, because any more and he risks his psyche being splintered across every square meter where life exists, in every speck of the universe.

But he can sense the foreboding in the tenuous connections with Her, and from what he little he can glean, war rumbles at the very core of the World Tree. It lies over Asgard like an avalanche waiting for the slightest trigger, but it won't come just yet. There is still time.

And with war, the presence of Death is inevitable.

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The caves have the same signature as the dungeons - uniform in its construction, ceilings parallel to floors, walls perfectly perpendicular to the ground. And all the surfaces practically shimmer with runes ensorcelled against collapse.

His guards lead the way down, far away from the '_deadly'_ orange sunlight. It turns them into stone, and Harry feels the beginnings of amusement – maybe they are the inspiration for garden gnomes, despite their comparable stature to his own[二]. The walk continues for nearly ten thousand steps when his escorts slow.

And then he sees it, the massive structure is housed in an impossibly large cavern, seemingly suspended over a bottomless pit by a great number of bridges – merely one of the many Dvergar citadels, but this is Harkalegasta, where the greatest of all the Master Dvergar Smith resides.

They take the largest bridge, the only one crafted of stone, and he mutely accepts the blindfold before they guide him into the sprawling maze of twists and turns, his guards none the wiser to his mapping out of the corridors with his magic.

They lead him far below the citadel, passing many curious eyes and gabbing tongues before reaching a set of massive doors. The blindfold comes off, and they give him a moment to reorient himself. The doors that he faces are massive, and light peeks out from the minute spaces, blinding bright against the white marble floors.

A shadow grows from the light, and the doors open just a crack, "Who is it, who dares disturb my work?"

"I ask for forgiveness in the interruption of your labours. I came at the commendations of my Queen, the Lady Frigga, who declared that the works of Ivaldi are treasures beyond any measure."

"So be it," the door opens wider, the guards slink out of sight, so Harry steps into the room without further prompting, hissing in surprise when the searing heat penetrates through the insulated layers of leather and decorative armour.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the light from the blazing forge, and when his vision clears somewhat, he sees Ivaldi, a sight made rare in Asgard by Iðunn's apples – hunched back, wrinkled skin and thinning hair. And yet, the fabled master craftsman is hardly diminished by his seemingly advanced age.

"My question has not yet been answered."

"I am Haraldr Hjortrson. I am but a simple aide."

The wizened man laughs, "A simple aide? How humble of you, to declare yourself at such when you carry the backing of the All-father and his bride, and the birth right of the Stag. Which one of the Five do you hail from, Dáinn, Dvalinn, Duneyrr, Duraþrór or Eikþyrnir?"

"I merely exist… to uphold my oath to the King. Thusly, a simple task, Master Ivaldi. As for your other question, I have no answer."

Ivaldi merely chuckles, "Very well. I shall not be the one to deny the request of the beloved lady of Asgard then."

The aged craftsman beckons him to an adjoining chamber, seemingly deathly cold in contrast to the forge, and Harry realises one thing – Ivaldi is nearly blind; milky cataracts threatening to swallow his dark eyes.

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She follows his subtle directions well, more silent than he could ever be in the undergrowth. Slowly and steadily forward… until he sees his quarry, browsing through the undergrowth.

_The string draws taut – deep breath in, and then half let out through the mouth – and then the near-silent twang of the string, the passage of the arrow through the air, straight through the ribs into the chest cavity… the rustle of the undergrowth as the animal falls over._

He jumps off the horse, Death in the corner of his vision. He has not quite killed the doe in one shot, and she feebly struggles. He kneels down at her back, away from the kicking legs, pushing down at the shoulder and neck, and pulses a wave of magic through. He takes the pain and awareness away, and whispers soft apologies as he snaps the fragile vertebrae.

The soul goes to Death, and he watches as She disappears back into the forest. His horse Eydís waits patiently as he secures the carcass to her, and he rewards her with some of the forest fruit, and when they return to the stables, she has her favourite treats of bread and carrots.

The carcass he hefts to the outside of the kitchens, where he begins the systematic gutting and slicing of the flesh. The meat goes to the kitchens, where they jest with him, before they set him loose on the latest mound of bent cutleries and shattered goblets. They are insistent on recompensing him, and he decides on some grain this time – he never tires in the experimentations and reinventions of the culinary delights of his past.

For one, he misses Firewhiskey… and a good steak. Not forgetting fish and chips, or the delicious treacle tarts, and not forgetting… the chocolate phoenix cakes. He just has to figure out the methodology of making them, right after he can ensure the _procurement or substitution _of the ingredients.

The hide he brings to the tanneries, the very last piece of raw hide that he will need for a very long time. He has already tried and tested the optimum integration of spellcasting and Seiðr weaving on countless samples of hide, and now has all he needs to make a complete set of armour.

A set of armour more than fit for fighting an entire congregation of Hungarian Horntails, but he knows not where and what the enemies are this time.

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The quadruple daggers are warm to the touch, despite the fact that he has been handling them for a better part of the day. A testament to the sheer masterpiece of a network that all Dvergar forges draw their heat from, he muses, and maybe such is the power of the heart of a dying star.

He hefts the daggers once more; blades stained with his own blood, and sends them flying towards the make-shift targets.

Dead center in the bulls' eye for the hundredth time, out of one hundred times.

A few claps sound out, "One of the more if not most challenging works that I have done, Haraldr Hjortrson. I would not have made them for anyone else."

"Then I am glad to receive that honor, Master Ivaldi. Have you reconsidered my offers of recompense?"

The dwarf craftsman was nearly blind from the fires of the forge, and yet had so far refused Harry's offers to remove the milky-white cataracts with unshakable determination.

"The initial offer, for I have not thought about it since the day you left the forge, Hjortrson. There is nothing in my forge that I do not know my way around, and my eyes afford me the distinction from light and darkness." _And thusly I do not see the bloodshed that stains my masterpieces,_ is the implied and unspoken.

And so, Harry vanishes the wrapped bulk into the ether, straps on the holster containing his newly commissioned blades, and summons Ivaldi's reward.

Fourscore casks, of his best drink for every decade that passes in recompense for Ivaldi's work.

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**Colors, names, characters, all derived extensively from Norse Mythology sources.**

**Time-skips a plenty in this chapter, and I fiddled with it even more during the past week (even when it was completed). Pushed some things back and forth within this and the next chapter, so if there are glaring mistakes, do let me know.**

* * *

[一] 心里有数 Literally means 'the heart counts', or so I am told.

[二] The Dvergar in early Norse mythologies are of human-size, with their characteristics being dark haired and sickly-pale.


	4. Chapter 4

**Transliterations**

**Is there some way that I can zap whatever that's on my mind into the computer? Semi-analogue is such a killer.**

**Sometimes things just get out of control when I write. I've taken some of that out and transplanted it into another document, and hopefully it will grow into a companion fic to Transliterations in the near future, filling in some events that I am often referring to, but neglected to give a proper place in the main story.**

**I'm hoping that the above made some sense.**

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_I've destroyed demons and monsters, devastated whole worlds, laid waste to mighty kingdoms…_

**_Odin All-father,_**

**From the script of Marvel's Thor**

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Note: No time-skips.

**945 A.D.**

_War._

_aggression-assault-attack-battle-bloodshed_

_onslaught-outbreak-raid-riot-siege-storm-strike-violence-warfare._

_charge-combat-fight-foray-frenzy-fury-invasion_

But despite all its repulsive horrors, it was not strange to be in the epicentre of it – the horror at the revelation has faded to a dull throb long ago, leaving behind a numbing acceptance.

He had perceived it before he could smell the smelting and forging of Asgardian steel, heard its rumbles through the World Tree before whispers and worries graced the words of his fellow Asgardians. Death had been an undeniable phantom at the foot of his bed, sending him past images of wars that She had witnessed – fresh blood spattered across gleaming armour, flesh rendered pale from lack of lifeblood and soul, glassy eyes that had once burned bright.

They were forewarnings, long before Odin's eyes showed bottomless rage and anger at the Jötnar who laid icy waste to the humans who worshipped the Æsir. It was not the first time that ísöld had ravaged the lands that was _yet-to-be-and-once-was_ his home, Harry had mused then, but it would be the last Ice Age, from his memories.

And now, it was nigh time to end it.

Harry looks down at the army before him – polished weapons and armour, some familiar faces amongst the grim expressions, all waiting for Haraldr Hjortrson to send them into Jötunheim the moment the army from Midgard returns, _to beat the Jötun back into the heart of their own realm_ – and he imagines the shine of metal marred by specks of frost and frozen blood.

_It is inevitable_, he thinks to himself, resignation prevalent when he recalls the All-father's words from once upon a time, declaring his destruction of worlds with a grossly misplaced pride.

_Walls, carved and painted with astonishing detail._

_Beautiful yet terrible truths of things to come._

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He locks his joints, pre-empting the bout of weakness when Heimdall moves to unlock the power to the _Bifröst. His previous encounters with death in Asgard_ has made him that much more sensitive to souls, especially those with mortal wounds, _their souls_ _so much closer to Her now._

The survivors of the first armies warp into sight, and he quickly levitates the severely wounded ones onto the pathways, where the reserve soldiers stand ready to take the wounded to the Healers.

The next few waves will consist of the dead and those with light wounds, and Harry expects that the last wave of uninjured will be significantly smaller.

His attention returns to the army under his command, watching as they ready themselves for _Bifröst travel._

_Checkmate, mate. You should've paid more attention, Harry._

_You can't save everything without the sacrifices of the pieces._

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He prefers his own way of travelling through the worlds as opposed to the lurching feel of the _Bifröst, but he lands on his feet firmly. The sheer shock of cold on his face precedes the sensation of crunching ice beneath his feet, and he opens his eyes to take in _Jötunheim.

A sinister snow globe world – the cold exacerbated by wind-borne icicles.

There are many more things hiding below the layers of frost and ice according to his senses, but they are of little concern right now, because Death stands in front of him. She stands between him and a veritable wall of Frost Giants, and he hears the drawn breaths of the soldiers as the Jötun clamber up from the hidden edges of the icy plateaus. The cold grows even fiercer as their ice-craft forms blades on their arms

Odin makes his way towards Harry, and he wordlessly cedes control of the army to the All-father. He, Haraldr Hjortrson does not partake of the battle lust in wars, not since the legendary Æsir -Vanir war, a long time since past.

This is the first of many battles in the ice and snow of Jötunheim, but the last of that long chain that will end the decades-long war.

Harry watches as the King raises his chosen weapon, and hears the battle cries of both sides. The army flows around him, and he stays out of the range of all the ranged weapons, silently watching as the soldiers fight off blades of ice with steel forged from fire.

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The Frost Armies have retreated, leaving behind bodies of Æsir and Jötun flesh. He trails at the end of the Æsir troops, as they leave death and destruction in their wake. There are those who are not-quite dead yet, but there is not the slimmest chance of survival for the worse-off – not with nearly severed torsos and necks.

He draws one of the four specially crafted daggers from its sheath – watches for the understanding in their eyes when he approaches to extend the tender mercies of Death, and hears their last entreaties in the gravelly speech of both the gravel-hewn Frost Giant tongue and lilting Æsir tongue.

The reflection in their eyes show him alternate visions of what they see – he is of the Valkyrie, he is Skaði, he is a father, mother, lover, wife, son, daughter. The feelings of relief and thanks transmit themselves through the warm glow of their souls, as he cleanses their souls and releases them to Death for her keeping. He sifts through the slivers of silver, honouring their existence.

He follows the trails of crushed snow and smouldering embers of the Æsir camps, and silently laments the loss of the great and intricate Jötnar structures where they fall; the destruction of its cultures and history. It is a small mercy that only the Jötnar warriors remain in the citadel – no race would go to war without leaving a hope for continuity of their own, but the conclusion of this war is the eventual decline of the Frost Giants. Much like the World Wars… but on a magnitude almost unimaginable.

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The soldiers rage against the final stronghold, an angry splotch of rust against the greys of the icy walls.

And then Death showers him with another barrage of images, all too familiar, because he has lost count of the times that he has seen it before –the top of the tower where two kings battle, a solitary structure devoid of all life, a room holding the Casket of Ancient Winters, and a room half shrouded in darkness.

It is the crucial moment that She has been waiting for, so he makes haste with Apparition.

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Odin's eye patch is gone, all traces of it scorched away along with the surrounding skin – Harry knows all too well the blow of a Frost Giant sorcerer's magic – but the man manages to pull off a convincing strength in his posture, as he gets up on his own two feet.

Laufey lies on the ground wounded, and after a cursory inspection Harry leaves him without further injury. The fallen King is incapacitated such that he cannot make another attack without losing his life to a retaliating blade, but his wounds are insufficient to tempt Death into taking his soul. It is a calculated risk that Laufey lives, but he is strong, and has enough experience on the throne to rebuild the kingdom to its former glories.

Odin stands some distance away, watching curiously as Harry kneels onto the ground beside the King of Jötunheim, and props the fallen sovereign up with a bit of transfigured frost.

_"King Laufey."_

Red eyes look upon him, accompanied by a voice reminiscent of glaciers colliding, "You are the one who brings death upon the battlefield."

"Where Life exists, Death follows regardless; war merely hastens the loss of life, your Highness."

He casts several spells in one row – from shielding spells, Notice-me-not charms to binding curses – and then they are alone. He looks into the eyes of the Frost Giant King, and then plunges into the ice-cold memories of Laufey.[i]

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The Casket of Ancient Winters is cool to the touch – the burn of the cold lingers in his body long after he has vanished it into the ether, next to his collection of eclectic items over the years. It snakes through his veins, an ancient kind of magic that his magical core assimilates with ravenous hunger.

Odin watches as he clenches his fingers, as if to rid himself of the cold and then the King stalks down the hallway once again.

They follow a set of stairs that spirals downward, far below the tower where the duel of two Kings has already taken place, deep into the ground. They reach _that room_ after the chill of their surroundings have frozen tiny icicles into his hair, and Harry marvels at it – a corner of the ceiling is linked directly to the surface, moonlight spilling down the shaft from one of Jötunheimr's many moons, leaving the rest of the room in stark contrast with the weak light.

It is a stunning room – cavernous, etched with markings – sacred, even. He would have called it a place of worship, for hope and prayers, if not for the lingering touches of Death upon the hall. It is a room to place the privileged dead, or the dying.

And it is certainly no place for a _child_ to lie on an altar, like a twisted form of a live sacrifice to an equally twisted God. And yet, the All-father stands before the child, a prince of the Frost Giants.

He can practically taste the tendrils of scheming from Odin's mind, and it is practically drenched in misguided intentions. It is a terrible thing to envision of a child, and it makes Harry recall the childhood that he has not quite forgotten, even after so long.

"You would take him back as a spoil of war?" the question bounces about the caverns, and it halts Odin's hand from touching the child. The King turns and looks at him, and Harry focuses on that sole eye.

"He would be _my son_. And he would not be left to die here, and he could even bring… peace to the two kingdoms," _or be used as a hostage_, supplies Harry's mind, because the All-father is not above petty tactics and bloodshed to gain the upper hand.

Harry confirms the truth from Laufey, hidden in-between the lines of the All-father's statement; the child is of the royal bloodline, and that Odin knows it, either by reading the grand markings that adorn the child or by sensing it. Only a rightful King could ascend the throne. Harry shakes his head, "Your _loyal_ subjects should not think so."

He has traversed enough Æsir minds to know that the heir to the Throne of Jötunheim will never be fully accepted, a mere princeling in the shadows. The timing is ill; young Thor is just shy of a year old, and the Æsir armies, who have been under the full-time command of their King, have barely concluded a decade-old war on the Jötnar.

To bring back a son born during a war would be a thousand slights to the Queen, and Harry is disinclined to subject Frigga to it. To declare him a Prince would be to doom an innocent childhood – to subject a child to veiled ridicule of being a product of wandering affections, by a King, no less. And worse of all scenarios – suspicions thrown upon a tiny child, to be the unholy union of jötun and Æsir.

_Cries of fury against blood impure, and stealers of magic, and he watches as his best friend cries._

"Though I have sounded words of advice upon your deaf ears countless times, I fear that I cannot allow you to bring an innocent child into such a mess, call him your own, and subject him to your machinations. Not when your hands are stained with so much blood of his own people. Not when the Queen sits upon your throne, waiting with admirable patience for your return, just to cradle your son in your arms," he steps closer to the altar, and the child looks up at him with wet crimson eyes, too weak to even cry for attention… just a weak whimper from a throat worn raw.

He imagines that his situation had been similar – parents that he hardly knew already dead and cold, crying until someone lifted him out of the cradle, away from the sight of his parents sprawled lifeless on the floor – yet worlds different. An orphan of sorts; mother unknown, father defeated with his mind so nearly lost to the world, left to die if the conquest failed, instead of being evacuated along with the rest.

Too weak to survive the harshness of his own world, and yet the abstract artwork of lines across the child's brow – patterns stretching around a tiny torso and equally petite limbs – tell of the _destiny_ that he has seen in Laufey's mind.

A pang strikes his heart. He cannot let a child die here – cold, alone, weak, and now with no one to care. Death will not take such a tragic soul away from him; _he_ will take the child away instead.

The child lies weakly in his arms, shifting into the soft leather of his armor for comfort, where the heating charms are still in effect.

"And so, he will be yours, Hjortrson," strain colours Odin's face when he lands a battle-scarred hand onto the child. Magic seeps into the skin of the infant… and where the blue edged with symbolic lines once was, is unmarred pale skin.

Darkly lashed green eyes peer back at him.

_And so… he is my son, _his mind echoes after the All-father.

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Odin still lingers within the depths of the caverns in search of items of _interest_, and dismisses Harry in light of 'securing' the Casket. There are urgent matters to tend to in Asgard and a dozen more issues that require his time, leaving no time for him to stay in Jötunheim to ensure that Laufey will do what a King is meant to do.

The memories run in his head while he rips the ends of his cape to form a makeshift blanket to swaddle the child in. He climbs the steps to the surface, summoning the warriors around the area. The veterans he picks out with no problem, and they ask no questions about his orders, the only response is the prompt action that they take after he dismisses them. The young and barely-experienced stay in front of him – high on adrenaline and bloodlust, _proud_ of the fresh Jötun blood that slicks their armour and blades.

With Death all around him, _it is easy_, to forget that no one else can truly sense her presence.

He snarls at them, careful not to jostle the bundle in his arms – they are men, with a higher consciousness than animals fighting on instinct, and yet they linger on base levels of outright cruelty and disregard for life. They look shocked at his sharp tone, and then turn paler than the frost that lines their armour when they realise that _he knows_ what they have been doing to the Jötnar warriors – the incapacitated, the wounded, the dying, and the dead – and the consequences that await them.

Desecration of the dead is ultimately punishable by execution in both of the Realms, and Harry hints that he has no qualms about handing over the young soldiers to the people of Jötunheim.

They are promised an unpleasant experience in Asgard upon the end of the customary celebrations, and Harry makes a mental note to make an example of similar atrocities. He leaves them under the command of the veteran soldiers, casting a quick eye about the ruined infrastructure before inspecting the rest of the battlefield in the Kingdom.

He is satisfied with the efforts, as the Æsir armies are starting to segregate the different classes of wounded, dying and dead of both Kingdoms, and so he calls out to Heimdall.

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The ground lurches beneath him when Heimdall answers to his call, and Harry finds himself alone with the Gatekeeper. The 'all-seeing' Guardian of the Gates glances past the concealment charms and the torn cloth of his cloak, and stares for a moment at the child in his arms.

"I have Seen. And I grant him entry into the Realm Eternal."

He decides against Apparition to the palace for obvious reasons, even though it is the faster choice – his mount has been returned to the stables. The Elder Wand finds its way into his free hand, sensing his need before the thought has even come to his mind. The prerequisite to the spell brings him incredible heartache –

_Flaming hair and a mischievous twist of her lips, laughter of children somewhere_

– but it does result in a fully corporeal stag Patronus, larger than he can ever remember, and furnished with astonishing details – bright eyes and lush white fur are the only thing he registers before the animal nuzzles his cheek with enthusiasm.

It makes him smile, and Harry pushes away its head with a playful bat after allowing a cursory snuff at the child in his arms, and the stag bows down on one leg for him to get up. It is wholly a surprise to feel _its_ delight trickling through him from his Patronus, and he loosens himself from the grimness of the situation on Jötunheim as the stag bounds down the length of the rainbow bridge.

The gates open nearly too late; the guards are gob smacked at the sight of the elusive Advisor riding on an enormous stag. The gap is just wide enough for the massive antlers to leave brush noiselessly past. There is a brief, _absurd_ epiphany then, the 'son of the deer' riding a stag down the streets of Asgard.

The giddy joy quickly dampens when they near the palace – a trace of Death still lingers. Her touch is rare in the city itself, a race of near-immortals who have yet far chosen to meet Her in the battlefields, a rite of passage to Valhalla.

He dismounts the stag, but does not dismiss it. His animal escort lends a positive calm to his thoughts as he strides down the halls to the receiving hall. Frigga is already there, probably having waited since the messengers' arrival to declare the surrender of the Jötnar.

She flashes a surprised glance at the great white stag before bursting into motion toward him, worry evident in her face for her husband. He calms her down with low tones, explaining that there is no cause for worry. She listens to the quick message that the King will soon return with his personal guard, that the troops will follow after their military duties.

"He is fatigued from his battle with King Laufey, and will require aid from the Healers. I will inform Healer Eir as soon as I have secured the Casket in the Vault."

She relaxes at the news, and then notices the child in his arms. He has to catch himself from physically backing away from the Queen when she reaches for the child.

"To whom does that child belong to?"

The words are soft, "He… is my… son," and yet, he feels the weight of his words.

He reluctantly leaves the child in her hands, and when she asks him for a name, he averts his gaze, "I have not yet named him, your Majesty. He was found in the depths of Jötunheimr, left to die. His mother was nowhere to be found, and she is most likely lost forever, along with whichever name that she would have chosen for him."

There is a profound sadness in his eyes that Haraldr is not aware of.

The large white stag fades into nothingness at the wave of his hand, and Frigga immediately regrets her asking at the look on his face, and he leaves the room immediately to finish his tasks before the King returns to Asgard before she can even assuage the pain in his features with an apology. The dark tattered cape flutters belatedly out the door, and Frigga turns her attention to the babe in her arms.

Dark lashes, pale skin and delicate features, not unlike Haraldr's.

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A lone pedestal stands along the main walkway of the vault, a testament to Odin's surety of victory of the war with Jötunheim.

He leaves the Casket of Ancient Winters on that embodiment of vanity and ostentation, leaving as quickly as possible; the presence of several failed Hallows taints the room, and fills him with a sense of wrongness.

The brief stop at the Healers' is just long enough to detail the All-father's wounds to Eir, as she warms his hands for a fraction of a minute before checking him over for injuries. He leaves soon after with a murmured excuse, because the recent turn of events has raised more concerns than he can put to rest.

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The kitchens, however, are a different story.

"Master Hjortrson! You are well, I hope?" one of the seniority greets him, showing all of her laugh lines with a broad smile. The rest of the staffs share their sentiments of relief with words and smiles, and Harry can't help but feel a measure of contentment in their camaraderie.

"Surely you do not doubt my abilities, Madame? I would hate to leave the silverware in a state of disrepair, and you know how I get when I am reminded of the dented goblets." They share a laugh at his jest, before Harry relays the information from Eir: the Healers require an assortment of nourishing herbs and food for the injured.

The staffs in the kitchen are cheery even in close proximity to the scorching heat of the stoves, the young ones scrambling to get the request in order and sent to the Healing Chambers. A few more moments are shared, and he makes plans to dine with them when the commotion caused by the war dies down.

A location charm sets his bearings right, and he brings the flask that the kitchen has prepared as per his request, to the Royal Chambers.

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Frigga has already dressed the– _his son_ in clothes when the guards permit him to enter. The Queen has her hands full with the year-old fussy blonde who gurgles happily at him, but she somehow manages to direct him to the cot where the infant lies asleep.

The clothes he recognizes as Prince Thor's old clothes, but the garments are ill-fitting, and he frowns at the fabric nearly pooling underneath. The adjustments are easily made with his holly wand; a few charms modified to tailor the clothes to a better fit, and a colour changing charm to turn the royal red into a less conspicuous dark green.

It is then that the young Prince attests to his namesake, with a loud yell. The sleeping infant awakens after Thor's loud yell for attention, and Harry himself jumps at the high-pitched shriek that follows. The startled whimper is tell-tale, and it is nothing short of surprising when his memory takes over.

One hand underneath to support the fragile neck, the other for the body, and then a careful manoeuvre for the head to rest at the crook of the elbow, the forearm keeping the child to his side, leaving his other hand free. The prepared flask is retrieved, and the lid transfigured into a rubber teat.

Frigga's surprise at his practiced actions is nearly tangible, but he ignores her stare in favour of bouncing his son gently, coaxing lips open to accept the warmed goat's milk. The husbands of Asgard have no business in childrearing, unless it comes to harsh discipline and teaching their heirs the tricks of their trade.

She recovers admirably, "I wished that you could have been on hand with my son as well," teasing lightly.

"I would have gladly acquiesced, my Queen, but my attention was occupied with… other matters," and that is nothing but the truth – he had reluctantly ceded command of the troops over to the sovereign of Asgard while trying to juggle diplomacy issues with the other Realms.

Running an army was much too different from commanding troops. It was almost pure luck that the All-father had gotten so far without the stratagems used in his time, depending on sheer brute strength and a lack of regard for Death on the battlefield.

He had hardened his resolve on standing his ground after seeing the aftermath today – too many lives lost in the heat of battle on both sides, feeding never-ending cycles of death and hatred from the All-father's splitting of skulls and the spilling of blood.

"Would it help if my future endeavours after all the wartime formalities will include spending more time with my godson?"

The mood lightens with his returning quip, and Frigga leaves with her son to the receiving halls. Harry himself returns to his chambers, with his sleeping son in his arms – his presence is not needed in the great halls when the court assembles for a merry feast.

The silence in this moment has been hard-won and rare – there are preparations to be made for the coming days, and the roar of celebrations when the soldiers return will be nothing short of deafening.

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That night, he sits at the edge of the bed, looking at the little boy nestled in the middle, well-fed and asleep. The candlelight flickers over his compilation of notes of the Immortal Tongues over the years, and he deliberates over each one.

That night, he decides on a name for his tiny son. A name from which for his son to draw purpose, meaning and being – a simple wish for him to rise above his circumstances, to make something for himself in a world that spins on the axis of war and bloodshed. He doesn't want for his son to be trapped in the clutches of blood feuds, rash actions and petty grudges.

_To rise, to be aloft…_

_To be free of whatever that binds you_

**_Loki._**[ii]

That night, he caresses Loki's brow, wiping at the tiny furrow.

And that night, he smiles when the child relaxes.

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The day dawns as it always does, but a gloom hangs over the sea in the far distance. He summons his Patronus with only just _intent_, and realises that it is not a true Patronus – he has not even thought of any happy memories, and it has its own awareness of sorts, linked to him somewhere in his brain.

He leaves the white stag to guard his still slumbering child, and leaves his rooms.

"Haraldr."

She comes out from the adjoining hallway halfway to his destination, and his heart jumps at the head of red hair and radiant smile before he catches himself, it is _Eir_ – not Ginny.

Drowning in loneliness, he has confused the woman before his eyes with the woman in his heart for far too many times, and _things_ have happened between them. The look in her eyes is telling – she has probably heard about his son, still yet to be named.

She is confused with his intentions, and he has no idea so as to assuage the beginnings of hurt and heartbreak shown so clearly in her eyes.

"Loki. His name… his name is Loki."

She turns and disappears, and he does not chase after her – he is needed somewhere else.

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There are far more than he expects – the embalmers have worked tirelessly throughout the long hours of the night, but still, this is not all of the dead who have died for Valhalla. There will be another one tomorrow, and maybe one more the day after; he knows that this is merely one side of the war, and wonders about the funeral rites of the Frost Giants.

There is a lingering regret of sorts when he watches the shoreline, but he ruthlessly cuts the emotion and shoves it into the recesses of his mind. People dressed in funeral garb hover about the boats with a slowness borne of disbelief, gently placing items into the interior, next to the deceased.

He knows what it looks like from the ground – men who look like they are merely in slumber, framed by food and clothing, and dressed in the decorated fineries befitting of their rank.

Fathers and mothers gently stroke the faces of their sons – wrong as it is for a parent to send off their child. Sisters and brothers weep, while wives and children stare uncomprehending at the sight. He waits silently, for the last whispers of goodbye, heartbroken wails, and the soft caress of lips to foreheads as they step back.

_War does not decide who is right – it decides who is left**[iii]**._

Two men to a boat… and with mighty heaves from all of the pairs, the boats are set adrift. Eyes turn to him, but he does not meet them, instead closing his own. He draws strings from the Fabric, rubs them together – forming friction between the fibres and moulding them with his mind.

A Firestorm rises with his outstretched hands, all of its infinite fiery tongues licking hungrily at the air. It is easily tempered to his will, and follows his commands to abandon its form. The ring of fire splits into creatures that he has known well over the years, greeting his half-open eyes.

_Skogatt, reminiscent of Freyja's wagon pullers. A raven, a wolf, and a dog, representing the chosen animals of Asgard's King and Queen. A hunting dog, a mighty steed, a hunting falcon._

And he sends them off to the wooden ships, observing as they soar through the air, igniting the wood with their touches, with every leap or brush of wingtip.

"_Fourscore,_

_and fourscore more,_

_through the boats do the fires roar._

_The lives that have been lost through war,_

_I hope that you will fight forever more,_

_in Valhalla's halls that you have hoped for_

_since the time of yore."_

He turns, and walks away.

"_Fourscore,_

_and fourscore more…"_

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His mind races and loops about schedules and half-sketched plans – a bevy of items clamouring for his attention. He will have to meditate for a duration to sort them out, but he does have his priorities. The one that sleeps safely on his bed, the Stag assures him through the spider-silk link. But in this instant, it is the one who stands in the hallway.

"That was truly a remarkable display."

"It was the least that I could do for the families whose men have thrown their lives for a glimpse of Valhalla," _because I sent them to their deaths by letting you have control_, is the unspoken sentiment that he will never say and that no one will hear.

The All-father senses his deep-seated anger, and backs down a fraction of a step, "It is as you said to Laufey – that Death hastens with the march of War."

"Your _Royal Highness_, it simply _honours_ me that you have deigned to repeat my own words." His words are dripping with acidic insinuations, and he sees the All-father's face twist with fury. The King's fingers twitch, as if he would like no more than to brutalize Harry, _kill_ him for the slights that Hjortrson has uttered.

Harry hardens his own eyes in response, and shows the scar across right palm, and sees the All-father freeze at the sight of the raised line. It means many things to the King and the citizens of Asgard. But to Harry, it symbolises too much.

The transition from merely being looked upon as an instrument and a useful pawn, pledging oath upon oath to 'the good of Asgard'. A _thing_ to be feared, as Haraldr Hjortrson took to war, ultimately ending with a truce borne by hostages – Njörðr, accompanied by his son and daughter, the mighty Freyja and the fair Freya.

It is the mark of sworn brothers, sealed with blood freely shared.

He drops his hand to his heart in deference, "And now, as advisor and brother to Odin All-father, _I shall know my place_, as you have ordered. As is for the good of Asgard, my King."

The All-father remains speechless when Harry dismisses himself, citing the need to attend to pressing duties.

* * *

**_[i]_**_ No, I did not forget to put in the break-in into Laufey's mind. It does not serve as an integral part of the work. Truthfully, it just got too complicated, and will thusly be shoved into aforementioned companion. It can be read on its own when I eventually get to posting the finished product._

**_[ii]Loki_**_, otherwise known as **Loptr**, is loosely translated to 'aloft' in Icelandic, which I am told is the closest to Old Norse. Loki translates loosely to 'to lock, to end, to close.__ I am bending the translations to my benefit, as always._

**_[iii]_**_ Quoted with minor adjustments, from George Bernard Shaw_

**_Angst-ridden roller coaster stuff huh. Much parallel-line drawing between Norse Mythology and Thor, more plot building within where I left off with Rewrite, some tying up of loose ends, and more linkages with the stuff in Chapter 1._**

**_Not quite satisfied with this chapter, so I'll be fixing this up when I have time, but I have mammoth things on my plate of late, so you ain't gonna see much fixin' or updatin' any time soon._**

**_True / False:_**

_Reviews bump up the priority levels of Transliterations on my list? Something to be debated._

_**31/1/2012: Teeny tiny edits. The reasons will be explained with the upload of the next chapter.**  
_


	5. Chapter 5

**Happy Lunar New Year to those who celebrate it.**

**Warning: This chapter is not 100% proofread yet, and I have no beta readers whatsoever.**

**Changes made to Harry's Asgardian name – Haraldr is the (more) correct term as it has roots in Old Norse, which is linked to Old English (Hereweald)[i] which sounds more logical than a simple translation with le mighty search engine. More notes regarding that at the bottom of the page.**

**I've decided to do away with Odin's many wives and children in the last chapter, if that was not apparent.**

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_There is no instance of a country having benefited from prolonged warfare._

**_The Art of War,_**

**By Sun Tzu**

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She has no real reason to be here, but her heart constricts at the thought of _not knowing_. It compels her, the silent force drawing deep breaths into her lungs to steady her heart, and it makes her left leg swing from the horse onto the solid light of the bridge.

He had stood here many a time, recognizable even from afar, dark green and blacks against the luminescence of the Asbrú. He had stood there, a beacon of surety, even in the barely veiled panic of war with the Frost Giants, just gazing down into the star studded blackness of space. She had seen the thoughts swimming in his expression, indecipherable, but she knew now; a child cradled in his arms.

She finishes walking along the short stretch of the bridge, and stands at the edge.

"Is she beautiful?"

Heimdall does not answer for a while, and she nearly loses her resolve at the silence before the instance that he speaks, "I may be capable of seeing across the galaxies, and hear across the stars, Healer Eir, but I find myself incapable of reading minds."

"The mother of his son. Is she beautiful?"

He pauses – the question can be answered so many ways, but he doesn't correct her in any form, "She _was_ beautiful," _so much so that a King would attempt to conquer another Realm for their runt of a son, in memory of her death_. Heimdall watches, from a hundred worlds away as her face falls further.

"She was beautiful, isn't it?" her heart seems to be shattered, "She's dead, so he goes down to Midgard to retrieve his half-blood son, the fruit of their short-lived love."

Heimdall observes as she stumbles back to her horse, half-blinded by anger and tears. The issue of Hjortrson's visits to Midgard are outside of diplomatic visits to other Realms – _Midgard is woefully powerless _– and it is an open secret amongst the court gossips, and the man has never refuted the slanderous conclusions that they have come to.

He cannot leave his post to chase after her and correct her misinterpretations of the situation. And even then, they are secrets that are not his to reveal. And it is there that he stays, at the end of the bridge, watching as stars fall and burn up in the sky of another world that floats in the galaxies, billions of stars away.

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He can feel the ancient magic from the Casket that still resides in his core, churning coldness in his gut.

Death lingers in Jötunheim, clasping soul after soul in both hands, meticulously performing her duties as he does his part here, although Asgard does not suffer the sheer magnitude of the frosted lands, where _destitutionstarvationsufferi ng_ runs rampant. The heart of the world beats furiously in the bowels of Asgard's Weapons Vault, struggling to send the barest amounts of sustenance to the rest of its body.

The distraction is welcomed; it begins with a jest, continues with a playful insult, before Harry takes to his feet with amusement barely veiled under indignation.

"I've never thought that a man could go into war armed with nothing but four tiny blades," mutters Hallvarðr, as Harry deflects the large broadsword with Ivaldi's craftsmanship.

"I've never thought it impossible, my friend. And you forget that I have more than the knives of Ivaldi." Harry retorts, watching for the curved arc of the blade before striking.

He manages a cutting swipe at the wrist of the Weapons Master, and the weapon is disengaged from the man's hand with a hiss of pain. Hallvarðr checks instinctively for sliced flesh and blood – even though the both of them know that there will be none of the former as well as the latter – before bending to get his weapon again, "And I always thought that sharpened blades were meant to tear into flesh and spill blood."

Harry smiles, baring the full white of his teeth, and watches as the man sharply avoids his gaze, "They can kill, with the right intent. The craftsmanship is yet to be matched by his successors, as was his ability in drinking the best of my finest brew like a fish in water."

Hallvarðr switches the subject as fast as he can switch weapons, and dives for Harry's heart with an ornate glaive, "What of Dáinn[ii], then? Surely it has been birthed as no creation of the Dvergar forges,"

The man refers to the White Stag as Harry quietly dodges the sharpened blade aimed at this calf. The Weapons Master continues, "Some say that you have won the companionship of Death, one of the great four stags that eat from branches of the World Tree Yggdrasill."

Harry laughs at the graveness of the man's voice, and the fact that the former half of the rumour hits close to the mark, "And others say that I have summoned the soul of my father from beyond his final journey, and harnessed him as a mount to suit my travels across the Realms,"

Hallvarðr grins at his theatrical jest, but nevertheless continues with a flurry of jabs designed to penetrate the soft flesh in-between ribs, "I cannot deny you your secrets, Haraldr Hjortrson."

"Just as I cannot deny the Court of its only pleasure, Hallvarðr," the outcome of the battle is left undecided at that moment, just as the soldiers file into the room. They pull away from each other, and Harry takes a moment to straighten out a strap that has been biting into his skin ever since Hallvarðr struck him with the side of the glaive.

The doors open, and Rúni can't help but let his eyes wander the walls of the room – gleaming blades line the walls. He has never set foot in these halls before, and all the training that his battalion has ever accomplished is the rudimentary formation.

The Weapons Master of the Guards has been _there_ ever since Rúni has ever known of his destiny as a second born male of his clan – intimidating and broad shouldered even without the layers of armour. It is no legend that Hallvarðr knows the extensive uses for each and every blade that the Guards have in their arsenal; it is a fact. But even the presence of the ever-impressive Hallvarðr… pales in comparison when he sees the man standing behind the Weapons Master.

Haraldr Hjortrson. Otherwise known as the Shadow General of Asgard. The chills run up his spine at the emerald eyes that seem to pierce _everything_.

"Hello, gentlemen," the cultured tone of the sable-haired Advisor-General greets the silent room, "please, be at ease."

Harry does mean it, but all his request does is to make their posture even stiffer, if even possible – all they need is one unexpected noise-making charm to shatter spines into fragments. Perhaps it really is his fault, for scaring them senseless in the frigid grip of Jötunheim.

The newest battalion addition to Asgard's armies are nothing more than whelps; trained in the art of holding swords and nothing more, unschooled in anything more than basic tactical commands. Most of them have survived, by virtue of being the reserve units in the entirety of the war, a mere visual bolster to the flagging numbers of the Asgardian army.

He takes a deep breath, and banishes the unwanted thoughts from his mind.

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The white stag raises his spectacular set of antlers to acknowledge him when Harry enters the room, the rest of its body remaining motionless. An impressive guardian for his sleeping son who is cradled into Dáinn's side, fingers curled into the soft hair. Harry smiles at the reassurance spilling through the link, and makes his way the bath to scrub the remains of the training session from his skin.

Loki catches his movement at the corner of the bed when he returns, and turns his head to gurgle adorably at Harry. He caves in almost immediately to his son's beckoning, and sits by Dáinn, picking his child up while humming a broken tune.

It is infinitely odd, to slip into the role of a father figure with such ease. He cannot recollect the precious moments of long ago, only knowing that they were few and far between; always busied with outbreaks of mischief and violence, with the population favouring the latter more so than the former after a short decade of hard-won peace. He recalls throwing himself into the thick of it then, to avoid the all-consuming grief, and before he knew it, they had grown up more or less without him.

_Without a father…_

Loki is tiny for his age - Laufey's own memories are murky beneath the crushing guilt and near insanity, but the once-heir to the Jötunheim throne is older than the young prince by a decade or so, kept in a state of sub-hibernation with a combination of starlight and pure frost as sustenance.

It is not abuse, though his son had been on the edge of death from sheer inattention due to the war; it is a method that forces adaptation. His son now takes easily to Asgard as he would have Midgard, but Harry is careful to monitor his son for any unexpected maladies.

He mirrors the smile in front of him, and touches his forehead to his son's, "Hello, little one. I think you're ready for a play date, aren't you?"

_… and without a mother._

Tiny fingers grasp his thumb, and somewhere, deep within him, he accepts the hardened resolve in protecting the innocent soul in his arms, as well as the others of similar circumstances out there.

_So many others out there._

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"Careful, Haral–"the pain sears through his scalp before the warning registers; the young Prince has a firm grip on his hair, yanking it with tear-jerking force.

Harry sends a sparkle of seiðr to distract the uncommonly strong infant, and he sighs in relief when his godson releases the iron grip to grasp at the fairy lights, "It astounds me that your fair tresses are in perfect order, my Queen. I fear that my hair will never be as it once was – my Prince has my locks in his hands."

She laughs as she allows Loki to wind his tiny fingers around her index finger, "Necessity is a good teacher – pain is a lesson that can be learnt in an instant."

"That must be the reason why I've been tasked to carry my godson with you to your halls whilst you hold my son in your arms, my Queen," he manoeuvres Thor into a position facing forward, keeping the tiny yet powerful digits out of reach from his hair.

"A lesson well learnt then – I cannot bring myself to refute your statement, Haraldr. But my handmaidens have expressed a wish to see both of the young ones, and you have gladly acquiesced, have you not?"

Frigga resists the urge to laugh at the disgruntled muttering to her young Prince, and presses a smile into Loki's hair. The walk is peppered with conversation and laughter, which feels surreal after the long period of unrest and battle.

He leaves her with the two children in her hall, Fensalir, with a hand pressed to his heart.

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He has not been at one of these assemblies for quite a long time, and it seems that the weeds have begun to run rampant in the absence of the King.

These are the people who have goaded Odin to declare war; because it is a glorious endeavour, and _that there is nothing more satisfying than knowing that Asgard reigns supreme over the Realms_. The increase in taxes was to be a temporary move in order to gather resources to send the army to war, and now they are attempting to impose heavier, _permanent_ taxes.

There is nothing but roiling disgust as he silently observes – the deliberative assembly is nothing more than a childish agglomeration of _noble_ lords bearing the privilege of the House of Odin, pushing to save their coffers from being used on the very people who have contributed to their wealth.

He represses a sigh when the meeting is adjourned – most of the Court is comprised of unfamiliar faces, and now he has to sift through meaningless trails and leave breadcrumbs for Odin's personal guard to find. There is one upside to doing things in such a roundabout manner – there is an inexorable fear to know that the guillotine hangs over those who do wrong unto others.

_There is no greater fear than fighting an intangible justice._

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Haraldr returns just as the last of the women take their leave, and Frigga watches as Haraldr cradles his son to his chest, humming an almost-lullaby with his brows furrowed. The strings of seiðr are probing his son, as if searching for… something.

"Is something wrong, Haraldr?"

"There is… no cause for worry at this moment. There is always some caution towards illness to be taken with a quiet child…"

Frigga watches as Loki squirms about in her confidant's arms, hands reaching upward. Haraldr captures on of his son's hands, and presses a kiss into the tiny palm, apparently satisfied with his son's state of health.

Brilliant emerald eyes turn to her, "There was a lady amongst your company that I have not yet seen since today. A handmaiden to the fair lady Freyja[iii], my Queen."

"You must mean Angrboða. She is a rare sight, even in my halls, keeping to herself. She has talented fingers for weaving cloth, and Freyja is delighted with her works."

"I… see, my Queen. I must excuse myself now – my little one grows sleepier, and I must put him to bed if I am to return to the work that awaits the Independent Advisor," Haraldr murmurs, and makes his way out of the chamber.

_'Talented fingers for weaving, indeed', _Harry thinks to himself, for the handmaiden Angrboða has woven an admirable disguise over herself and her clothes. Underneath the fair skin and dainty movement, lies the flesh and blood of a living hrímþursar[iv]. A skilled weaver of a particular brand of subtle seiðr – underhanded treachery that induces trust and blind loyalty – that is invisible to those incautious.

She holds no more sway over his son than a feeble breeze has sway over a mountain – now that he has severed the beginning threads of a powerful spell on Loki.

That does not mean that he will leave her as she is.

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It is one whole week before the prideful All-father gives in, and summons him to the Shelf of the Slain. Nothing but a petty victory then – they are hardly alone in Valaskjálf, so he bows with hand to heart, under watchful and curious gazes as two dire wolves make their way down to him.

Geri and Freki lick his free hand in greeting before returning to their places at the throne, much to his amusement.

"Haraldr. I trust that you have had enough time to present your verdict."

_A week to investigate a riotous herd of twenty-five is plenty of time indeed,_ is what he wishes to say, but Harry swallows those words bubbling in his mind as he straightens from the bow and retrieves a fold of paper from thin air, "Here is the list."

One of the All-father's personal guards comes up to him and takes the letter to Odin, and Harry watches the King's expression twisting as his eyes rove down the list. He finds the conclusion without much confusion:

_The house of Odin is full of traitors.__**[v]**_

"Leave us," Odin's command resonates in the hall, and after a stunned silence, all of the guards, courtiers and servants leave. The great doors swing shut with a finality of sorts, and the resonance fades away before the All-father speaks with barely concealed rage.

"What is the meaning of this, Hjortrson?"

"There are no hidden meanings. My verdict is as it is. Call upon your personal guard to investigate, and the truth will be apparent. Call upon the sons of the House of Odin[vi], and look upon their faces as deceit shadows their eyes and colours their heart."

It does not surprise Harry in the slightest, when the list turns to living flame with a crackle, leaving nothing but ash in the All-father's hand. He leaves the Shelf of the Slain with quick steps – it is clear that he does not have to attend any more assemblies hereafter, acting as a watchdog of the King.

_Who could give water to the King who will not drink of his own accord?_

In theory, he _can_, but not without breaking both his moral boundaries and the final sanctuary of every person.

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Muninn calls from the perch above his right shoulder, and Odin hears the echoes of a memory within the vocalisations of his raven named 'memory'.

_…words of advice upon deaf ears..._

_… innocent innocent innocent…_

_… stained with so much blood…_

He has won the war, but at a great cost to the realms involved, and at a great personal cost as well. The raven hops down, and Odin reaches to unfurl the paper grasped in the obsidian talons. The charred paper is a reminder of his naivety and pride. The House of Odin sits on a crumbling cliff, undermined by its own festering progeny, and Haraldr has left the golden city for a short training session with one battalion under his wing.

There is a war inside of him, humility versus pride, and one of them finally triumphs.

He clutches the armrests of the throne and hauls himself to his feet, clenching his teeth against the aches and pains that shudder through his body. The discomfort is a physical consequence from forcibly bending swathes of seiðr to do his bidding. He grips the paper hard, hearing the crinkle under his fingers. The world seems to tilt sideways, a dizzy array of colours.

Odin All-father stands… and then he falls.

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Rúni comes to a crash landing on the ground, barely managing to roll onto his back – the only things that he can control are eye movements; limbs heavy as lead, his lungs burning as they shudder to herd in breath after breath, heart still pounding faster than the hoof beats of a galloping horse. His brothers-in-arms are in a similar state, covered in the mud and dirt of Asgard's treacherous mountains, unrecognizable by sight except for the cut of distinctive Asgardian leather armour.

He has been pushed to his limits for far too many times, and fallen over the edge so many times, only to realise that he is capable of so much more – that _they_ are capable of so much more… more than their duties in wielding blades and shields.

_"Give up if you wish – with the knowledge that you have already come so far to not reach the end."_

There is a swelling sense of pride in him when Hjortrson looks down at them from his lofty perch on a boulder, also covered in mud but smirking and hardly breathless even though the General himself has led the one-day rush up the mountain.

"Well done. You have bested my challenge, and by my promise, there shall be rewards equal to your pain."

His brothers-in-arms have never looked more similar then, teeth bared in feral smiles and mud splattered armour. That night, they feast on roast boars and the fabled Firewhisky that even the Dvergar covet. The high from the revelry remains even during their descent from the mountains, and only falters when the battalion reaches the thick forest.

A ghost bounds over the undergrowth, and there is a brief jolt of panic before Hjortrson calls for calm.

Rúni catches sight of Hjortrson making his way to the front of the now-silent group, untangling vines from Dáinn's impressive antlers before looking at the cervine creature in the eye. His shield-brothers hold their breaths, waiting for their next orders. Hjortrson calls forth one of the section leaders, and murmurs a few words before sweeping himself onto the great white stag and then disappearing into the forest in the direction of Asgard.

"We are to return to Asgard at our best pace, and wait for further orders from Hallvarðr."

The possibility of war is all too real now, and the mere fear at the revelation shows in the white-knuckled grip around his weapon. They return to the golden city under the day-long smother of apprehension and the hot sun, expecting the worst, but the city markets are bustling as ever. Smiles and shouts are prevalent in the streets.

Nothing seems to be wrong.

The palace is a different story – so much so that he can hear the breathing of his fellow soldiers in the hallways. The silence is unsettling, and it reminds him of the all-engulfing snow and frost of the Frost Giants that he has barely escaped from barely two fortnights ago.

Everything seems to be wrong.

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The journey takes a little over one full day on foot, but the travel is cut down to a fraction of the time; with Dáinn dancing weightlessly over the undergrowth in the forest, leaping over the heads of those too slow to get off the paved roads leading to the palace.

The sprint continues all the way to the Royal Chambers, and he dismounts even before the white stag has even begun to slow down. The guards move to open the door for him, and Harry pauses for the tiniest moment before he steps in –

_ no sign of barely tethered souls_

– to see the King in Odinsleep. It is not the first time, but no less eerie than seeing the formidable being in a vulnerable state. Frigga is talking in murmured tones with Eir by the bedside, and they both stop when they see him.

It is awkward, but he pushes past, meeting Eir in the eye as she confirms with him regarding the reason for the All-father's sudden state – the forceful manipulation of power beyond the King's grasp. The conclusion is unspoken, that there is no better solution than to allow the King to recover on his own.

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Frigga watches as Haraldr murmurs words of apologies into his son's hair. The man kisses Loki's forehead before handing his son over to her, "I am truly sorry to burden you time and again with the care of my son, My Queen."

She smiles, "Nonsense. Loki has never given me trouble, being the darling that he is. There is no need for worry, as Dáinn will be with him in your stead. Safe travels, Haraldr. "

"I shall take my leave then, and look forward to returning with favourable news."

He is capable, she knows, but it is still unnerving to know that Haraldr is travelling to the remnants of the battleground with nothing more than his own person.

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The Gatekeeper stands motionless save for the golden eyes that track Harry's movements.

"You seek passage to the Frost Realm, Jötunheim."

"It is an epilogue – that the both need," Heimdall has no doubt heard Harry's declaration in the Royal Chambers.

"Noble intentions, Haraldr Hjortrson. But know there will be no help in time should you require it," it is as good as an open concession, that the Gatekeeper does not see all as previously advertised; snow albedo applies to light and scrying magic, which makes Frost Giants nothing more than blurred figures, even to all-seeing eyes.

"There is no better declaration of antagonism than a horde of well-armed men, Heimdall. I will be fine."

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The land under his feet is _dying_. It is agonising and beyond torturous, to feel its death. A slow death that will take place over a few thousand millennia and Harry feels sick to his stomach at its creaking and groaning.

It struggles, not for itself, but for the _million billion_ souls.

He waits there, settled on a snowdrift, back to an ice wall, within striking range of several Jötnar warriors and their impressive beasts.

It is not a long wait – the location that he has picked is on the outskirts of the settlement where Laufey is located.

The voice of glaciers crumbling and crushing ice floes is unmistakable, "You have stolen something of mine, Bringer of Death."

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**Concerning reviews: They are more than a source of gratification. **

**I don't often reply reviews concerning the future of the main characters, because there's no fun in ****knowing that one of you knows****. Questions in reviews are good – they make me take more things into consideration; prod me into stewing things over until something clicks into place. 'Rewrite' was never this multifaceted, it was something that happened because of feedback. I don't believe that there is no writer in this world who doesn't like something in return for what they write, be it reviews, recognition or remuneration.**

**And to be honest, it makes no sense for folks to slog all the way through my chapters just to inform me that my style of writing and plot are sub-par to ****your standards****. Or complain that I'm whining for reviews.**

**Just stop reading and forget that you ever read it. Seriously, it is ****that simple****. You might as well write your own version of the events and convince me that your way is better. **

**I'm done here.**

* * *

[i] Of which translates into 'army' and 'leader', otherwise understood as 'leader of the army'.

A pretty awesome coincidence, if I should say so, even though I preferred the last one. It did have a nice ring to it, but the current one does sound a lot more like Harry.

[ii] One of the four stags of Yggdrasill that was mentioned in the previous chapter– google that!

[iii] Teen tiny part of the Teutonic Myth and Legend, by Donald A. Mackenzie, [1912], but for the benefit of the curious

[iv] Yet another term for Frost Giant.

[v] Lifted from King Laufey, from the script of Marvel's Thor

[vi] Clans under the House of Odin, but not Odin's biological sons.

* * *

**My literary itches are close to non-existent right now. I have other things on my plate. You have been warned.**


	6. Chapter 6

**This is the crazy talking now - there's too much sleep deprivation. Never would have thought that one would wish for another to be bitten by bugs or be doused in itching powder. Or to be constantly itchy – the things that are wished upon me. Well, I guess that's better than being hit (by inspiration). **

**I'm already a few cards short of a full deck as it is.**

**Some of you were looking forward to the father-son bonding time. Not sure if it hits the mark though. Re-read the last chapter when I was half-asleep, miraculously found all of my typos and then promptly forgot them.**

**And if it remains unclear… this is not biblical canon in either Marvel or Norse context. I just stick stuff into the blender. Jötunheim will be based on Marvel-verse – Laufey is therefore male, and the giants from Jötunheim will be comprised of Frost Giants unless otherwise stated.**

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_"Personality has power to uplift, power to depress, power to curse, and power to bless."_

**_Paul Harris_**

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He sits upon the makeshift throne, crude in its construction – a far cry from the original master-crafts produced by the kings before him – and ponders. His thoughts of late have been nothing more than that of crystalline ice; clear, unsullied, and blissfully devoid of the shadows of insanity and fingers of paranoia. It no longer feels like he is being pushed to the brink, it feels like –

_He has just woken from an unending nightmare._

One of his soldiers enters, and Laufey turns his attention to the Jötnar, who clasps one hand to the other elbow in a slight bow.

_"Anur__**[i]**_," the respect in the warrior's voice is a slight sting, because Laufey has led so many of his people to their deaths, with many more on the slower tortuous paths, and yet they look at him with reverence, "He comes," the two words are whispered, like a death knell before the icicles begin their killing descent. It is infinitely more than an inkling that he knows what the warrior means, but Laufey hopes against the instant association that comes to mind.

"Who do you speak of?"

"The one… who performed the rites of Skaði in her absence."

Laufey sets off immediately into the blizzard.

The journey is unnervingly short – the infamous intruder sits close to the encampment of the Jötnar warriors, who guard the entrances that lead underground where the innocent seek refuge. He sits in the snow, seemingly uncaring of the half-circle comprised of frost-hounds and their handlers. He waves off all of his men – there is no need for any more of his people to die if the All-father has sent for his head to make a statement against further rebellion.

The snow falls relentlessly, and yet the puny man is unhindered by the snowflakes, black and green leather armour spotlessly dark against the snow. Aside from guarding his back, he shows an infuriating nonchalance of sorts, and Laufey makes his presence known, "You have stolen something of mine, Bringer of Death."

Sable hair flutters along with movement, and Laufey watches as the man unfolds himself before bending forward in what seems to be a symbolic gesture. And then he speaks, with a voice that reminds Laufey of melting frost; soft and lilting, "They call me Haraldr Hjortrson, _Great Father_. Much is stolen from those involved in war – life, innocence, dreams… hope – and I fear that the war has stolen much from your people,"

Laufey would have expected a more ominous name, for one so well versed in the nuances of Jötunheim's dialect, and if the words of the surviving warriors are true, Hjortrson is well acquainted with the rituals surrounding their dead. The rumours and hearsay are enough to stay himself from relaxing in the man's presence, though Hjortson speaks in the Jötnar dialect, where the words and meanings are stiff in their pronunciation, and difficult to manipulate.

"Stolen much of my people indeed – Asgard holds the heart of Jötunheim in one hand, and our neck in the other," Laufey comments, watching as the raven-haired man considers the ice-blade forming on his hand. He is different from the Ӕsir that Laufey has had the… pleasure of meeting so far, who have by far insisted on using their own manipulative tongues. Haraldr Hjortrson, by his statement, is at least truthful, despite the latent coils of power that surround the greens and blacks, poised to strike any second, like the rime serpents deep in the caverns.

"I cannot return the Casket of Ancient Winters – but I hope that the grievous hurt done to the Heart of the Realm will be assuaged with this offering, meagre as it is."

It is a bold declaration, for someone who has allegiances to the other side of the war that has so recently ravaged the lands of his forefathers, and Laufey pauses to watch as the man draws a dagger. It gleams as bright as it _sings_; obviously from Dvergar make. The negotiations - if it ever was one - have failed. Laufey readies his blade, only to fall short when Hjortrson _cuts _at his own wrist with an ornate knife, and Laufey watches with equal portions of nausea and intrigue when the man pulls _tendrils of ice-blue_ from it.

_It is devastatingly familiar, like something from a nightmare. _

_There are memories now –_

_of his father hacking away in the deepest caverns of their Realm, _

_pulling free writhing tendrils and placing them within a box made from_

_the bones of his ancestors –_

_the Casket of Ancient Winters._

He snatches more blue from thin air, the very air turning warm, weaving them into the fabric. The threads are woven, along with the snow that falls endlessly in Jötunheim catching onto the net. And then, everything within his senses is caught between a moment and an eternity as Hjortrson pulls the weaves tight.

Something solidifies.

There is an unidentified pang of _grief_ and _loss_ in his heart when Hjortrson looks into his eyes and apologises once more for 'stealing' something of his, but it dances away just as quick. The sense of loss disappears forever, when the tiny man presses something into his hands. Laufey finds himself unable to look away from the strange object long after the sorcerer leaves in a flurry of snow. It is shaped perfectly into a sphere, and pulses with a similar energy as that of the Casket of Ancient Winters.

The magic sings softly, a faint echo to the thundering war songs that the Casket roars[ii], but the song is heartfelt, especially for a few of its threads:

_It sings of the embrace of cold and snow and frost and ice._

_Of the white that blankets the world that Laufey has always known._

_Of a prince of the cold and the ice and the snow, lost in war._

_And in between the weaves… there is a hidden chord, of hopes for the future._

Even the harsh shifting of the ice seems to calm at the odd lullaby, as Laufey treads deep into the underground caves.

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Death is at edge of his vision, showing him the way.

Exhaustion clings to the very marrow of his bones, even as Harry pulls the fabric of the world even closer to bolster his magical core. He has difficulty in remembering the last time that he has invested so much of his magical core; erasing Laufey's last memories of Loki was cakewalk – compared to the fabrication of the Muggle equivalent of a pacemaker for an entire Realm. One eternity away, and still aiding him with her knowledge was his memory of Hermione, her stinging lecture on the medical advancements had given him an idea of what to do with the sliver of the Casket's power still lingering in his veins.

All of it has been off the cuff, and Harry is beginning to feel the effects of his impulsivities far too fast. Heimdall answers his whispered call with split-second reflexes, which betrays the Gatekeeper's investment in his safety.

"Haraldr Hjortrson. You are well," Harry senses more surprise than fact in the Gatekeeper's monotone statement.

"How… many days has it been, Gatekeeper?"

"Nearly six," is the clipped answer. There is a polished sheen to Heimdall's armour, and Harry feels his gut clench instinctively.

"How long has it been since the All-father awoke?" The Gatekeeper does not lie, and Harry has long figured out the art of prying the answers that he needs from all sorts of reluctant lips. He does not have the ability to skim the Gatekeeper's mind right now, but he knows the patterns well enough.

"Two days."

"When is the Army to be dispatched?"

"By daybreak."

"Cancel the orders to storm Jötunheim," is the last thing that Harry manages to force out before gravity takes over when his muscles fail.

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_A voice sings overhead, as fingers trace his wrist. They weave and bind, sealing the wound shut. He feels the change almost immediately – the magic begins to circulate weakly within his body, instead of leaking out of his wrist. His core feels the echoes of the Weapons Vault so much more clearly, a beacon to his depleted reserves._

_The voice continues, singing of the sadness of reunion, and Harry sighs with relief when fingers smooth the hair back from his forehead._

He knows that he could have died, had he still been mortal.

_He sinks back into oblivion, drifting along with the song made of heartbreak._

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Sleep does not come easy, even though Haraldr has returned. The man remains in a healing sleep, and the conclusion to the war remains in his words, with Heimdall is unsure of the events that have transpired in the frost and snow. Dáinn nearly glows in the moonlight, a silent cervine sentinel looking over his master.

Eir stands at his bedside, looking down at him. Her heart leaps when his dark lashes twitch, and races when a grimace shows on his face. The large stag nudges and licks at Haraldr from the other side of the bed, pausing to allow his master to hold on to his antlers before hauling the man into a sitting position.

The image is superimposed – the man before her now and the man back then. Weakened and frozen, close to losing his life. Battered and broken. It is all too familiar and different at the same time.

Green eyes meet her gaze, and she seems to be watching from a million steps away as he gazes at her, all pale-faced and dark eye bags, "I heal fast."

The echoes die, and she falls toward him with tears flooding her eyes.

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Harry wakes up just before the dawn, all alone with the exception of Dáinn, who shuffles restlessly now that he is awake. The stag lends him the use of his antlers without a single exchange of thoughts, and they move to the Royal Chambers, where Frigga is already waiting.

She is worried, but she allows him to enter into the nursery with no words traded. He retrieves his son from the cot, where her young Prince also sleeps. Haraldr presses lips against his son's hair, and Frigga can imagine the unspoken words of apology from father to son.

It is a brief eternity before he moves again, and he thanks her in a soft tone before leaving. Her husband gives her a questioning gaze, but she shakes her head.

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A pulse of paradoxical _cold warmth_ jolts him up, and it seeps into him, soothing his empty core.

It is easy to forget that his son is no ordinary infant, looking at his physical form. But like it or not – and he detests the fact – Harry knows that his son has been sequestered in that damnable room for years. He is thankful for the natural resilience of children, because it seems that children have no difficulty in making the most of everything, whereas any adult would have despaired.

_Far worse than the cupboard under the stairs_

Harry his eyes to look at the large emeralds blinking back at him, before smiling and kissing Loki's forehead, "Such a precious son of mine," before falling back into slumber. He barely registers Dáinn clambering onto the bed beside him, welcome warmth against his back.

It seems that between years spent within the walls and half-light of the cavernous underground prison, Loki has learnt how to grasp miniscule wisps of seiðr.

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He has never held a sentry position in the palace as of today, but all men experienced in the art of combat have been called to duty, and have been on standby since the night before. The army should have been deployed by daybreak at the latest, if the stage-whispers coming from the room are true.

He straightens when he sees the Grand Advisor, somewhat awed at the sight – seemingly close to death and depleted of nearly all his strength is Haraldr Hjortrson, but the man is intimidating, more so than usual. A glance and tilt of the head is all the acknowledgement he gets, but it is more than expected.

The room goes silent when the man enters the hall, and then the doors are shut, taking all the sounds within with it as Rúni takes up position outside.

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The rest of the room rises to object with Hjortrson's assertions that Jötunheim be left alone, only to be silenced by his quiet words, "Is my word not clear enough? Have my repeated oaths to the good of Asgard not appeased you? Jötunheim no longer harbours ill will against Asgard, but I cannot vouch for the actions of individuals," there is a pointed edge to his closing words, a double-edged warning.

The meeting ends – mercifully short as it is when Hjortrson attends, gifted with pulling conclusions out of everyone before they realise it – and all leave the room, with the exception of his Advisor and him. Odin All-father takes a moment to appraise the man.

He has never seemed weaker to Odin's senses, sapped of strength and seiðr by whatever that has transpired in the eternal frost. The man that stands before him has been irrevocably changed – not that he has never stopped _evolving_ – but there is a sense of purpose to him that has never been truly present before the War in the Frost.

And for all his years since the beginning of the World Tree, Odin All-father has never met another such as Hjortrson.

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_It is finally over_, Harry thinks to himself, as he steps onto the Observatory floor under Heimdall's watchful eyes.

Eydís trots along the Asbrú, and Harry basks in the light of the morning Asgardian sun; having endured the cold and dark for far longer than his liking. The journey back to the palace is a relatively quick one though the streets are crowded with traffic – his secondary mount has finally become agreeable to the temporary bridges woven out of seiðr that he can conjure now.

He leaves Eydís with the stable hands, and makes his way to the side gardens that lead to the palace, only to stop. The King and Queen of Asgard are in the gardens, sharing a moment.

Harry hesitates in his steps, and summarily loses all of his stealth when two of his men approach him from the opposite end of the garden. "Haraldr, you have returned," Frigga's smile is a familiar thing, and so is Odin's questioning gaze.

"Your Royal Highnesses," he acknowledges them with the customary hand gestures, "I am glad to report that the negotiations have been concluded."

Rúni fidgets under his gaze, which in turn causes a nervous tick in his partner Volstagg. Harry ignores it for the time being and continues, "The Dökkálfar extend their congratulations to Asgard, belated as they are, and have hinted at willingness to trade under a more… comprehensive agreement." Odin relaxes at the modicum of good news from the Dark Elves, and Harry turns towards the armoured duo.

"Report."

"All is well on the patrols, Master Hjortrson," is all Volstagg is willing to say, with a pointed glance at Rúni.

Rúni fidgets under the Grand Advisor's piercing gaze, and Volstagg fights the urge to smash his own head against the wall at the dead giveaway. His partner is shrinking under the attention of the man that Rúni practically idolises as a hero, and Volstagg himself balks at the idea of delivering the bad news to their General.

_There can never be a good way to report that one has lost his superior's offspring for the umpteenth time in his three day diplomatic stay in the hospitality of the Dark Elves._

Haraldr Hjortrson smiles warmly at that moment and Volstagg cannot help but feel the jolt of surprise and horror when the man comments absentmindedly, "It appears as though my misplaced son is on his way here."

"Father!"

There is the thrum of hoof beats on the stone, and Volstagg knows what is coming towards the small party at frightening speed – a magnificent white stag by the ominous name of death, and a little mite of a boy hanging from the all-too impressive rack of antlers. Dáinn slows down, stopping three steps shy of Hjortrson's back.

And despite the number of times he has seen the transition of Hjortrson from intimidating General to loving father, Volstagg cannot help but stare at the display. He cannot deny that it assuages a tiny part of his pride, to have been bested by a _three year old child_ – but only because the father of that child is a master of far too many things to name. It is just as well that the General forgets the issue of their failure as guards to his son – Haraldr Hjortrson has the uncanny ability to pick punishments, and Volstagg does not fancy being deprived of the delirious burn that Firewhisky provides.

Loki watches as his father dismisses the two men before whirling around with a wicked grin. His father plucks him from Dáinn as soon as they leave, and Loki squeals with laughter when he is swung around in dizzying circles. His father growls playfully at his ear, "My son, I think that Rúni and Volstagg would be thankful if you did not subject them to a game of hide and seek with them without _informing_ them."

The All-father clears his throat at this moment, and Loki watches from his father's arms as the King gives them leave after reminding his father to report the details of his visit later. The King walks off, and Queen Frigga gives Loki a wink before trailing behind her husband. The King does not have time for Loki, but the Queen treats him as she does Thor sometimes.

Loki wrinkles his nose at his father, "But there is _nothing_ to do when you're away now. _Everything_ is boring."

His father frowns, "That sounds like a terrible fate to be subjected to," and Loki nods along, "and since '_everything_' is so horridly boring, it seems that there is no longer any need for the Svartálfar curiosities that I've picked for you. Such a waste," his father exclaims, only to laugh when Loki protests.

He doesn't fume on the way back; his father thinks it _adorable_ when he sulks. The silent apology is accepted in the form of riding on his father's shoulder, as Loki talks about Thor's latest successful attempt in breaking into the Weapons Vault, followed by the _spectacular_ failure in raiding its contents, which has resulted in the young Prince being confined to the Royal Chambers for a day.

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The report is plain; factual and dry, glossing over most of the events in the hospitality of the Dark Elves, and detailed only in matters pertaining to the capabilities of trade of the Dökkálfar.

Harry reads the letter aloud for Loki's benefit – who can manage reading simple passages, but is not quite yet ready to do so in front of an audience until he becomes _better_ at it – who lies curled in his lap peering at the words before letting Dáinn play courier. His familiar enjoys bounding down the hallways of stone, much to the amusement of the domestic help and to the annoyance of the guards. Loki fiddles with a smooth rock, watching as the tiny Svartálfarian charms etched on one side turns the smooth grey into a mirrored surface.

Green eyes peek from beneath dark curls, "Father, what is Svartálfar like?"

Loki watches as his father's head tilts, considering the question, and then listens, spellbound as his father hums and gesticulates. The seemingly effortless weave of seiðr _draws_ stories and _tells_ pictures, and Loki revels in this display of seiðr, a secret between only the two of them.

He sees his father's journey down the World Tree, flying past Ratatoskr[iii], to a dark world.

He sits there, flanked by his father's arms, warmed by the magic, and watches.

Watches as the magic paints pitch-black skin set with glowing eyes, upon the canvas of darkness that the Dökkálfar live in deep underground. Their heads are adorned with manes of silvery blonde, polar opposites to the underground dwelling Dvergar who have pale skin and dark hair.

His father spins a vision of cramped tunnels to breathtakingly wide caverns, all covered by strange sorts of insects, all of which have one thing in common – they _glow_. Through the gleaming tunnels they eventually reach the heart of one of the Svartálfar cities, and Loki sees a different sort of world compared to Asgard, where the combined light of Asgard's sun and shimmering stars is so dissimilar from Svartálfar's constant twilight made of the light from glowing lifeforms.

And where the pride of the Dvergar lies in the exquisite metalwork of armour and weapons – as Loki recalls – the Dökkálfar have their own, in the form of skilled manipulation of the senses and the mind, and a type of magic that Loki has never seen his father use.

The story is riveting, but Loki is glad when the session is interrupted by Thor banging on the large doors – the Dark Elf with the half-face makes him feel uncomfortable. He remains in the chair, looking at the traces of the weave as it falls apart on its own.

Harry gets up from the overstuffed wingback – one of several transfigured duplicates in his frequented areas outside of his rooms – to answer the door with Loki tucked in-between the armrests. Thor is practically vibrating with energy, an energy that is obviously contagious to Dáinn.

"Guðfaðirinn," the four year old shouts, having remembered his manners in greeting, but sadly lacking in propensity for keeping conversational tones. Harry tries to imagine the All-father having such eagerness during childhood, but his imagination falls short – it is much easier to believe that the All-father has never had a childhood.

"Hello, my prince," he replies his godson in a softer tone, "I was under the impression that you were to be confined to your chambers for a day."

"I escaped," is Thor's exclamation, grinning widely as if it is an act worthy of commendation, and Harry feels the urge to face-palm, and then hunt down and stick semi-permanent silence spells on the men who have been feeding the young Prince stories of adventure. There are half-sketched plans in his head, for Thor to be the proximity trigger for such spells when he finishes his attempt to impress upon the young blonde about receiving a meted punishment in its entirety, but those are purely theoretical.

The most that Harry can do is to replace Thor's babysitter-bodyguards with someone more reliable, and then reinforce – or rather, Thor-proof – the areas against the young Prince's mischief. He gathers his son and his godson, who does not look the least bit remorseful, and sets off for Frigga's halls. He can attempt his own brand of discipline, but his actions are one against the many who dote upon the Crown Prince of Asgard.

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The group of three – and one stag – enter her abode without any delays, because Frigga has already _seen_ them enter. Thor and Loki run ahead with Dáinn, egging each other to the end of the hall first, but Loki stops one quarter of the way, doubling back to walk with him.

Harry takes in a moment to impress the memory of his son's tiny fingers into his very mind – it is these moments that he is mindful of, because they are as precious as they are rare.

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**Time jump: Thor is four. Loki is three – I have seen children as young as one year of age ****_recognising_**** words, and reading by two, so Loki reading at the age of three is perfectly justifiable. Plus, Loki is more developed mentally in Transliterations. **

**On another note, ****Stochastic ****is up. First up is a mostly-inane drabble on the Ӕsir-Vanir War. Which happens way before the Frost War. That one might be updated in a haphazard sequence though; whatever that does not fit into Transliterations will be posted there.**

* * *

[i] Old Norse, meaning 'father' or 'ancestor'. Used as an honorific in this case.

[ii] Like the variations of a violin duet – varying the volume will yield different 'emotions' from the pieces.

[iii] Fabled squirrel in Norse Mythology who runs up and down the World Tree, carrying insults from one end of the tree to another.


	7. Chapter 7

**'Transliterations' has passed the 100****th**** review mark, and inches closer to 500 unique usernames! And as usual, reading your reviews is always awesome. It truly gives me energy to continue.**

**I regret that I have drifted far from my weekly updates, but reality has butted its ugly head into my matters. On the (not-quite) upside, I've been having major brainstorms about world-building and minor plotlines. 'Transliterations' has the potential to be (and is becoming) horrifyingly massive, and I'm kind of leery about having it explode in my face now.**

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_"And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."_

**Khalil Gibran**

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Frigga looks up from her loom at the patter of tiny feet, and sees her young son. She has _seen _this ahead of time, but she feigns surprise just to see his bright grin, "Thor! What are you doing here?"

"Well, my Queen, if I may interrupt," Haraldr stands at the frame of the arch, Loki in tow, and Frigga waves them in, "the little Prince proclaims to have 'escaped' from his chambers. I thought it prudent to leave him in his mother's care while I seek for the guards responsible."

He cuts an impressive figure even devoid of the armour as he enters; the stark black tunic and pants against the golden walls. She can never tell if he is merely jesting in such settings – where there is nothing but familiarity and family between the walls – so she stops him regardless of his true stance and bids him to sit while the children attempt to wrestle Dáinn to the floor, "Such business can wait, for the guards will hardly run from their sworn honour – here is a sanctuary for my handmaidens, and it will be respected."

He sits down meekly, betraying his straight-faced jest, and begins to pluck at strands of seiðr from the air to add to her stock of fibres. The threads that he pulls are thin yet strong, and Frigga looks forward to the fineness of the fabric that will be woven. It is startlingly different to have the Shadow General of Asgard to do such a task, but then again, she has known Haraldr long before his titles of power and grandeur.

Their idle chatter over work adjourns when the rest of her handmaidens come into her halls, bearing smiles and hopes for the latest marvels and more that Asgard's diplomat brings to her halls.

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Thor is sprawled onto Dáinn's back, and Loki laughs, trying to pull away the large head with a firm grip on antlers as the stag attacks his cheek with a strong tongue. The ticklish sensation stops when the Queen's ladies stream into the hall. Loki follows them, Thor opting to stay with Dáinn at the far corner of the hall, and soon most of them are cloistered around his father.

Today, he presents something called '_si_'. The word is in a language that Loki has never heard before, and then his father calls it by another word: _silk_. It shimmers like light on liquid, cool on his fingertips, but Loki can feel no whispers of seiðr from the woven fabrics. The swathes of fabric come in vibrant colours, and the ladies step forward eagerly. Where it comes from, or how it is made, his father does not say – only mentioning that he hopes for the cities of Svartálfar to begin their production as soon as possible, and Loki notes the interest in their expressions.

The cloth exchanges hands, and in return, his father receives whispered sentences, pieces of parchment and handmade things. It is the way of things, a particular sort of ritual that passes each time that his father returns from his ventures out of Asgard. He shares the first of any commodities that the handmaidens of Frigga will favour, and tells them of tales of far beyond Asgard to feed their curiosities. They return the favour with handmade things and let him listen to the murmurs of the Court.

Loki returns to his father's familiar and the young prince when the exchange session ends – the work of the adults and their play with the stag is eventually adjourned for a grand celebration feast in honour of his father's success in the recent negotiations, something that his father detests.

The feasting hall is bright with the torches mounted from every available bracket, and Loki watches in wonder as the many tables are filled with people, chattering excitedly as the servants ply the tables with platters of food and trays of drink. It is his first ever feast, but he is not afraid; he is safe in his father's arms.

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The first time that Loki sees his father fight, there is nothing less than absolute awe and the swelling pride in his chest. Each clash of blade upon blade brings the singing of vibrating metal, and his heart jumps with each close call of Hallvarðr's blade. A blade eventually makes its way to the neck of the Weapons Master, and Loki thinks his father a hero among warriors for it. It is only later on that he discovers from Hallvarðr that the near-misses are merely calculated dodges by his father, and then there are no words to describe that startling revelation.

That first experience is a long time past, but Loki's emotions from that time have not faded in the least.

Neither Loki nor his father can see the glaive aimed for his father's head until it is nearly too late, but his father senses it somehow and parries, as Loki watches from the edge of the training hall. The sound of blades striking wood crosses the hall, solely punctuated by heavy footsteps and panting breaths.

"That was a good attempt," his father says to the one with the glaive – it is either Sigmarr or Volstagg, but with the thick armour and helmet, Loki cannot be sure.

"But you are fighting as a team of _five_. Had I the inclination to return the blows with my blade, I would be fighting _two_ men by now. You cannot even hope to bring down a single new-born linnormr this way."

He watches as his father twirls the staff one-handed, and hears the hiss of the men as they drop their weapons from the shock of being struck on their knuckles.

"And now, without weapons, you have been slayed by the creature that you sought to slay."

The practice continues, another batch facing his father, who is barehanded this time.

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There is an unspoken question in his son's eyes, and Harry smiles at the restraint of his son, "What questions do you have now, dear one?"

There is a flash of surprise in Loki's eyes at his father's perceptiveness, and then his son blurts out, "I want to learn how to fight, father."

There is a stab of sadness at the determination in Loki's eyes, but Harry stamps it down and smothers it. There is only so long a time that Loki can seek shelter under his blanket protection, and Asgard is hardly a Realm known for its peace and serenity. It is a symbol of absolute power – upheld only by blood and war and violence.

Harry agrees, and the evening sun finds them standing in one of his rooms later that day, cleared of all clutter. It is a delicate subject to begin, especially for a young child, and Harry waits until he has his son's full attention, "I will expect you to do as I tell you. I will treat you as I do the soldiers – push them till they know their limits – and you have seen them in training before. No soldiers in Asgard start this early, and you are no soldier, because I am not one."

His father's voice has taken on that quality – the one that makes the entirety of the guards stand at attention – and Loki feels for a moment like he is something to be proud of, "You will never be a soldier of Asgard. You will not learn how to fight; you will learn how to defend... and how to defeat."

Loki starts that very day; bare-handed stances that he has seen earlier that day. He learns how to stand firmly, how to fall, how to get up. He also learns other things, like how to make a man as tall as his father fall to the ground with his legs and a sturdy push. There are so many things, and by the time they end, they barely clean up in time for dinner in the Royal Hall.

Loki smiles when his father apologises to the Queen for their almost-lateness, and feels the brush of his father's hand on his hair.

_It is yet another secret that he has with his father._

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Thunderstorms roil in the distance when Harry manages to tear himself from his work of researching seiðr from books in the Royal Library and the other Realms, and then reconciling them with his knowledge. There is science, there is magic, and then there is seiðr, and the ever-changing laws of truth of the universe.

It all seems impossible; how the universe contorts itself and Harry realises that his mind is simply not equipped to handle understanding it in its entirety. Death does understand it, and that is the reason why she is still unable to fully communicate with him with regards to the workings of the vast fabric of the universe.

The thunderstorm overhead is unleashing its unhampered fury when Harry finally reaches his bedchambers. It is no surprise to see Prince Thor and Loki huddled together in his bed waiting for him right beside his stag; the storm sounds absolutely frightful. The two jump when the light shoots into the room, followed instantly by the monstrous cracks of thunder.

He sends out a few charms to the window to muffle the sound instead of silencing it completely, because it will be good for them to get used to it, and for the young Thor to sleep in his own bed. He announces his presence to them, and then keeps them in a light hearted conversation in a bid to keep their thoughts off the 'monsters' that hunt in the clouds and rain overhead.

"I hunted for a monstrous beast in the dark Svartálfarian caverns," Thor recounts, bravado in his voice, which Harry thinks it to be an imagined jaunt through the kitchen's vast cellars, "and then I slew it, despite its vicious claws and snapping teeth."

Loki agrees with the Prince and Harry just chuckles when he joins them in bed, ablutions done. They have been excited by their own retelling of hide and seek with his familiar, who bellows his complaints through the mind-link at being trussed up like a common boar. They request a story from him - Thor plain out begging, and his son with those irresistible puppy dog eyes even in the semi darkness.

He thinks for a moment – because there are many stories that he knows, but all of them are too full of political treacheries for the children to understand.

He feigns, "I have no stories of swords and glory that you have not heard in the great feasts, all I have heard of are the stories from the Warriors of Asgard," They stop mid-groan when the lightning illuminates his wicked grin, "but I do know of one that few on Asgard have heard of."

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"Now, we have need of names for our characters," Father proclaims with a wan smile, something that Loki has rarely seen on his father's face. He battles with the Prince for the right to grant the hero a name, but in the end they have chosen the same name, 'Hǫðskuldr[i]'. The other boy Thor names 'Tryggr[ii]', and Loki names the young maiden 'Sigyn[iii]'.

The story starts off like no other – Hǫðskuldr is not like the brave men that all Asgardian tales start off with – the hero of the story is weak and a mere mortal. That is also what Hǫðskuldr thinks, until the day that he winds up in the acquaintance of a giant.

He learns of his people, and learns of his parents, long dead as victims of a savage war. Loki closes his eyes to imagine, as his father's beguiling voice takes him into the bustle of the marketplace as Hǫðskuldr and his giant friend prepare for their journey to the far reaches of the Realm, places where common folk have never seen the likes of before.

He dreams of a never-ending line of red carriages that night, and Loki thinks that there must be a monstrous horse at the helm of it all – the striking of its powerful hooves thundering through the land.

Harry is barely through the Sorting ceremony, when he realises that both boys are asleep. He would have lain down beside them, were it not for the fact that the young son of Asgard is a strong sleep-_kicker_.

He conjures a bed for himself and his son, setting Loki on it before tucking Thor into the bed. Harry slips onto the bed, pulling Loki until the small boy fits under his chin, and closes his eyes. He cannot sleep yet, due to the dredging of his memories. They are fuzzy, and have been so for so long.

He continues the story in his mind, turning it over and over until it saps his brain of thoughts. The story does not end with the boy having turned into a man, or having saved the world. But for them, the story will end there.

What Harry does not plan to tell in this story to the boys is how the wars afterward ravage the lands. How Hǫðskuldr's people are nearly decimated by the secrets of secrets – the ending he can never tell them because he has not witnessed it - he had left before it could happen.

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Thor is six when he learns that he has to take _lessons _from the scribes of the Court. They are boring men, who do naught but scribble on paper with ink when Father holds court with other boring men. He stares at his father, who has just made the statement while the House of Odin starts the breaking of their fast. His godfather is away once again, this time negotiating with the Dvergar for something.

"I do not wish to learn," he says, and feels the rest of the activity in the room slow to a halt, as it is wont to do when he tightens his chest to make the words hard and strong.

But his father is hardly fearful of him as the guards and servants are, "You will learn to read and write, no matter what you do or say, Thor. There will be lessons, and you will attend them. It will be indispensable when you are King, and will have the need to know about the going-ons of the Nine."

"Why would I need to learn," he says again, amending his sentence as his father's mouth curls downward, "when Loki can already do so for me?"

The attention of the entire table veers to Loki, who retracts his hand, previously set in a reach for his goblet of juice.

"Is this true, Haraldrson?" his father asks, voice hard in a way that makes Thor wince. He had not meant to get Loki in trouble; but the way his father looks at Loki is something that Thor is hesitant to redirect to himself.

Dáinn gives a soft huff at this moment, and all of a sudden Loki relaxes to give a slight nod. He then says something that Thor has heard his godfather say one or twice, "At your express wishes, All-father."

Breakfast continues with the All-father's nod, and Thor is left confused.

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"Haraldr Hjortrson."

Harry turns to regard the voice, and then smiles, "The sons of Ivaldi, come to greet me? An honour indeed."

Brokkr's face cracks into a smile, "Mayhap the bestowment of such honour lead to merry celebration?"

"If my reserves are not drained dry in your recompense," Harry replies without a beat, only to see Eitri's face shift, "but it seems that this is no matter of my commissions."

It is a full hour before Harry gets the extent of their problem, "You… wish for me to rid the Dvergar of this… fiend," they nod, and then he continues, "To what end then? There are many ways that I could end this, but few that the laws of your folk would agree with."

He watches as their faces twist at the reminder of his reputation. The Dvergar are a race who have honed their crafts of metalworking, from simple trinkets and sharp blades to marvels of master-crafts, and it is rightfully so that they have been humbled by the carnage that lies under their repute.

And so he listens to the tales that they carry in their heavy hearts.

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Loki feels Dáinn's rumble of approval as the stiff brush passes through the thick coat. The repetitive work is soothing to the both of them – Father has yet to return as expected from his trip to the lands of the Dvergar, and the young Prince is under the tutelage of the scribes of the Court. It is not the first time that his return has been delayed, but it is not an often occurrence either; so the stables are the best choice to bide his time until then – any guard that his father sends back will have his horse tended to in the stables.

His favourite horses are getting their fill of treats when the stable hands bring in five horses, and Loki feels his heart sink at the familiarity of the newcomers. A dapple grey mare, a blood bay, two roans and one buckskin. All perfect matches of the horses that the guards accompanying his father had ridden out with.

And then the sixth horse comes into the stables. Eydís.

Loki's heart feels like it has fallen through the floor itself, because Dáinn _knows_ when his master has returned to Asgard, and his father has not returned. There is a _horrible terrible_ fear that clutches tightly at Loki's chest, as he clings on to the giant stag. They thunder down the hallways just in time to see Queen exiting her halls.

Frigga looks upon Loki, and feels a sharp ache in her heart for the young boy. She cannot assure him that his father is fine, because she has not _seen_ that Haraldr is fine. There is a shroud of darkly coloured seiðr over the lands that he has ventured to.

His hand clutches the cloth of her skirts, and together they walk into the All-father's halls.

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Niðavellir is a rocky mountainous expanse, but its surfaces are well decorated by delicate hands and coveted tools, carved out by dwarves who brave the threat of the twin orange suns, the petrifying light that scours the surface. But Harry has long trekked past the borders of the Dvergar, where the carvings – immortalized along with their creators – have long dwindled in number.

Skornheim is nothing but a wasteland – the landscape is nothing but ash-covered boulders, and what little that is not made of dust and sand are the petrified remains of thorny plants. One sun crawls, directly overhead, while the other seems to move at an oscillating pace – it is no wonder that the Dvergar stay in their caves.

He has made the equivalent of a two-day journey in four hours by his judgement, and Harry suspects that there will be a ways more before he will be able to find the source of the fear that plagues even the faraway lands. It has been a good choice to send his men back before him.

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Loki stands at the furthest corner of the halls, nearly behind one of the guards on the lowest steps of the throne. He is not usually permitted to be privy to the Court's matters, but this is an exception – it concerns his father.

Five of his father's guard plod into formation before the King, and they kneel in reverence to the monarch of Asgard. Loki takes solace in the fact that they seem unharmed and well; merely tired from long travel. His stomach still turns at the other few possibilities and the hundreds of possible reasons.

He stays his tongue when the warriors move through the formalities of greeting the All-father, telling himself that it is a sign that his father is well. A sign that his father still remains in the hospitality of the Dvergar.

The appointed leader of the guards starts to speak, and Loki focuses, "My King, I bear grave news from the Realm Niðavellir," he feels his stomach bottom out at the first sentence.

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Hunger gnaws at his stomach. He must be quick to find food; very soon the second sun will follow after the first, and there will be little light to hunt by. His feet are afforded movement by sheer will, and even that is fading fast.

And then he smells it. His stomach works itself into frenzied spasms, even as he crouches down to creep toward the source. He knows the rewards that patience will bring, and waits for the best possible moment. He sees the window of opportunity and pounces on the lone stranger seated on the flat rock, flashing blade in swift trajectory to the man's throat.

There is a brief pang of despair as Hogun slashes his knife and expects the give of flesh under the blade – _he has truly fallen far._

The fight is quick and decisive, and Harry looks down at the man – no, not quite a man yet, a child – whom he has disarmed. The boy heaves breathlessly under the submission hold that Harry has him in, and he takes the opportunity to study the gaunt cheeks and greasy hair of the young adult. There are no weapons aside from the single gleaming blade lying on the ground a far bit away, and Harry magicks it into his safekeeping for the time being.

He releases his knee from the boy's back, and slowly releases his hold on the arm.

The boy jumps back, dark eyes nearly eclipsed by the full-blown pupil, and the sight of it reminds him of the half-feral werewolf children of long ago. Harry pushes the packed meal of warm meat and drink from the Dvergar forward. It is not the last of his food, but it is the last of the perishables that he carries on his person.

"Eat. And then we shall talk," is what the man says, the delicacy of the spoken words is something that Hogun has heard once upon a time.

There is grit on his hands, and the sand from them grinds against his teeth as he grabs the food by fistfuls. The meat is cold but tastes divine, and Hogun does not care if the meat is laced with poison – at least he will die a sated man despite the fact that he has failed the vengeance of his kin upon Mogul.

He pauses, feeling pangs of guilt towards his people. He feels a gaze of emerald regard him, and Hogun resumes his brazen consumption of the food. He will need to renew his strength, and seek out the Mystic Mountains to exact the punishment that the Ruler of Zanadu deserves.

He washes down the remnants of the meal with the bitter drink, and then regards the emerald gaze. He has nothing much to lose at this point to a sheer stranger who has fed and watered him in this near lifeless expanse of land – all that sustains him are the thoughts of vengeance and blood, and he knows that there is nothing left to live for beyond that paper-thin excuse. He has long accepted the deaths of his family and brothers-in-arms, and he might as well leave the memories of his people with someone else before he perishes far away from the lands of where he was born.

He cannot look for long at those eyes that seem to pierce everything, so Hogun starts the narrative of his homeland and its people with his inelegant grasp of the Ӕsir dialect.

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_The lands are wide and vast, and Hogun peers out from behind his brother's back at the spread of the land. His brother warns him against leaning too far out, and Hogun knows why – his brother had once leaned out too far, and fallen from horseback. The bone had been broken and reset, and what remains of the fracture is a bump where the bones have slightly overlapped._

_"The grass has been shorn short by our animals – we will have to leave soon for the summer pastures," is what his brother says. The sentence is cut short, and Hogun spots the reason for it._

_Dusk slowly approaches, but a section of the horizon is beginning to be shrouded in black smoke, the bottom of the plume highlighted by flickering red._

_The pastures where their family had settled on were on fire – the start of a fiery nightmare that greedily swallows every joy that Hogun has known._

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There is a bout of silence when the ragged voice finishes its last syllable.

It is the same story that Harry has heard, but it is not one passed on by word of mouth and empathetic hearts. It is a story, straight from the damaged throat of a survivor. He tilts his head at the young man who calls himself Hogun with nothing more attached behind the given name, and returns the blade with a flourish of seiðr that looks more like a sleight of hand to observers.

"Turn back. Return to your homelands. Mystic Mountain is no place for whelps to dream about glorious revenge."

The knife is a familiar weight in his hands, and Hogun snarls at Hjortrson's words, "And you know better then? I have _nothing_ to return to. My people were slain _for sport_, and those who ran were _hunted_ down like wild game. The lands lie dead, and bones litter the surface. My father and uncles and brothers perished in this unforgiving land."

Verdant eyes turn onto him, and Hogun drowns in the endless green and the cold hard truth in the man's face, "The dead have no need for vengeance, and those left behind are unable to lay down anything but their lives seeking blood to equal that that has been spilt. In the end, all that is left will be roiling hate and oceans of blood. When Mogul is dead, what will you live for then? Will you blindly follow those who have departed before you then, instead of living your life _for them_?"

The rage stops dead in its tracks, and Hogun thinks that he feels true despair for the first time, now that he has heard the denials of the deepest corners of his mind out loud from another stranger.

_He truly has nothing to live for._

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Frigga finds him huddled on one of the sills of the large palace windows, where the stars begin to make themselves known on the growing inkiness of the sky, accentuating the glow of the Asbrú.

"Dinner will begin shortly, little one," her voice is soft and comforting, but all young Loki wants is his father.

"I'm not hungry," a pause, and then he adds an afterthought, "my Queen."

The midnight curls of his hair are soft under her fingers, and Frigga feels a pang in her heart when he leans into her touch.

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**Twisted some content from Potterverse and Marvel, so here we are with Sigyn and Hogun. I meant to cover the entire Mogul of the Mystic Mountain in one go, but that turned out to be a ****little**** ambitious – hence the halving of the chapter.**

**It's starting to be a hectic next few months for me, and I fear that Transliterations will be taking the back burner for now. That means no weekly updates, but I will try my best to squeeze in some time for writing.**

* * *

[i] Old Norse haukstaldr = (poet.) 'man, hero'

[ii] ' Old Norse trygg = trusty, true, safe'

[iii] sigr "victory" and ný "new," hence "new victory."


	8. Chapter 8

**Just crossed out a major milestone in the Incredibly Important Things To Do List in Real Life.**

**It's been a while since I last updated, yes? This chapter is on the short side, but please hold on a little longer. I have one more week or so of real life to get through before I can return my attentions to writing full length chapters of Transliterations.**

**Also… horribly intrigued by the latest Thor trailer, because Transliterations might stea – ****_ahem_**** – borrow several plotlines from the Dark World.**

**With that said, enjoy more Marvel Comic villainy, scrambled with a side dish of character studies and Norse Mythology.**

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_"What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy?"_

**Mahatma Gandhi**

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The crunch of rock underfoot is synonymous to his footfalls, but Harry sighs out aloud, "If you wish to follow me, I would request that you cease from walking like a bumbling drunk. You give away our position generously to those who gladly serve under the name of Zanadu."

The footsteps slow, and Harry does so as well, making sure to let his shadow see how to walk with near silence even on sand and rock. He allows Hogun to follow him, because the stubborn brat will more than likely perish while searching for the Mystic Mountain and Harry does not like the idea of traversing the entirety of the terrain just to reap a child's soul – one whose circumstance of death would be nothing but the cruel turns of fate. Not when he can prevent it.

The headway that he has made is woefully short without the use of magic, but Harry settles into making camp. He has an unofficial charge under his wing now and the young ones always tire easily.

Hogun stares, and Hjortrson ignores; and it is an opportunity for him to discern the features of the man who has saved him from the certainty of Death of a land that is unknown to him.

Neither of Ӕsir lineage nor of Dvergar descent – Hogun is sure, for his own people are half of each bloodline from ages past – but he carries the cut of Asgardian clothes and the hum of Dvergar blades, both made of incomparable quality, and both exceptionally rare to find in the sole ownership of an outsider of either Realm. The man commands attention just by subsisting, and Hogun thinks that he can begin to understand why Haraldr Hjortrson has been tasked by the Dvergar to seek Mogul of the Mystic Mountain.

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Loki gives a good swing at the insistent nose nudging at his side, and feels immediate guilt for hurting his only companion wilfully. He whispers his apologies into the side of the large head, and the apology is accepted when Dáinn offers his horns to pull him out of the tangle of sheets. There are many things that he may do, and he wishes to make his father proud when he returns from releasing Niðavellir from the terror of a monster.

He spends part of the morning breaking his fast in the kitchens, surrounded by the hearty and bustling atmosphere, a far cry from the Royal Hall. Lifa sets down cheese and bread for him, as well as choice cuts of fruit. She gives him a great hug that smells of freshly baked bread and earthy grains, and then sends him off with his leftovers of fruits and nuts, wrapped in cloth to share with Dáinn and Eydís.

His father's horse is brushed as best as Loki can manage, and she nibbles at his hair in return when her coat positively shines. He has his midday meal with the Queen and her son Prince Thor, and then spends the better part of the noon listening to the scribes detail the inner workings of the Court to a drowsy Prince.

He slips out of the room with an excuse when he cannot bear it any longer, and Dáinn then carries him to the training halls, where the men have organised an all-weapons-barred competition. It is no surprise that Hallvarðr has an undefeated winning streak for the day's matches, and by then Loki has picked out a few moves that he is eager to test out himself.

The evening is spent in one of the many rooms of his father, sifting through some of the oddities that his father has crafted out of boredom and curiosity. All of the ones in the rooms are 'relatively harmless', or so his father has told him, with the more dangerous wares locked up beyond locks and keys of any sort.

Still, Loki stays in the first few rooms – the fifth room down the nearly endless hallways of their quarters is harmless to his father perhaps, but Loki will not take his chances; his sighting of a book with monstrous teeth is surely not a figment of his imagination.

He finds a small carved box, and falls asleep tucked into Dáinn's side listening to the melody playing over and over again.

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The flames dance and writhe sinuously, and the light that the fire gives off is no brighter than the moonlight that spills overhead. It is an unnatural thing, but the nights have been growing unforgiving as they travel towards the heart of Mystic Mountain, so Hogun edges closer to the blazing warmth that the ghostly flames emit.

He soothes the ragged burn of his throat with the waterskin that he has received from Hjortrson – a curiosity on its own – it never runs dry, and the water is cool and fresh, as if from a spring. The man has seen to his throat, and declared that the damage can be reversed by the skilled Healers of Asgard, but Hogun thinks that he will let it be. He has decided to never give voice to the folk songs of his people now, because those are songs that require the participation of more than one.

He will let his damaged voice remind him forevermore of the things that he has lost.

He watches fire, imagining demons to be dancing in the firelight. The translucent fire is hidden from his view when Hjortrson steps in front of him, and Hogun looks up from the flickering sway of shadows at the booted feet.

"Two days' from the location of Zanadu's scouts. From today onwards, we will be travelling in the cover of night."

Hogun blinks at the sudden appearance of under armour at his feet – carefully maintained weaves of cloth – light as cotton, but strong, impenetrable even, when Hogun puts a knife to the fabric close to the seam to test it.

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The afternoon brings upon a flood of warmth upon the courtyard, and Odin watches from the window far above as the two children tumble about under many watchful eyes. It will be many years yet before his firstborn will grow into his title as Prince of Asgard – and Odin is keen to keep it that way. There is much to be done to pave the way to kingship.

He looks upon his son's companion, watching as Haraldsson nimbly dodges Thor's lunge. By some prearranged gesture, the two boys team up on a laughing guard, who surrenders his weapons to his partner before chasing after two boys and one stag. Dressed in the finest clothes of Asgard, he supposes that the two of them would look to be close as brothers of royal blood to an uninformed person…

But Haraldsson's very nature is not Ӕsir. He is of Jötun stock – his very skin that the world sees is an intermingling of seiðr and frost-pelt. And even if he were to be Hjortrson's own flesh and blood, he would not be true Ӕsir. Hjortrson is an inconceivable creature; Odin would call him a golem, but the man has free will and spirit to match, is made of mortal flesh, and interwoven with seiðr and something more than Odin's eye can comprehend.

He looks down at his right hand, and remembers the wicked schemes of his own doing that have led to the discovery of Hjortrson's vague nature. He remembers his panic, remembers the binding of his newly–sworn blood brother to his will, remembers the betrayed gaze that no one else sees. He would not have done such deeds, had he the chance to return to those times, but he does not regret.

The flesh of his scar draws tight as he flexes his hand, and Odin returns to his throne, to head the matters of the Court.

The All-Father, Sovereign of Asgard, does not regret anything.

_Regret is the mark of lesser beings._

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The weak moonlight overhead barely stops Hogun from stumbling over rocks. They have walked between the split of the Mountain for the second night, and his mind has started to wander when Hjortrson sends a palm backward to halt Hogun's advance.

"Wait here," it is an order worded as a request, so Hogun nods, watching as the man slinks past the corner, sticking to the shadows like a hunting cat. There is the sound of a boot scraping on rock, and Hogun freezes instinctively, relaxing when the mysterious Asgardian reappears and motions Hogun to come forward. Only to freeze again when his line of vision comes into contact with four soldiers dressed in the armour of Zanadu. They stand stock still, apparently insensate to either intruder. All four pairs of eyes are glassy, and when Hogun nears the team of soldiers, their breaths are slow and steady.

They move on through the labyrinth paths, stopping a dozen more times for Hjortrson to repeat his feat of subduing the guards with nary a sound after the first time. Hogun never even witnesses how the man does it. He does not even know how the man senses the soldiers who have been said to be as silent as Death. He thinks he sees for Hjortrson for who he is – a predator stalking its hapless prey – and feels no more assured at the realization than when the man had pinned him down a few days ago with the weight of those emerald eyes.

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The first time is an exception. The sting against his senses is a familiar and unwelcome one, and Harry turns the corner to see four men and an unmoving lump on the ground. The blood is apparent even with the weak moonlight and the shadows, and Harry stumbles at the sudden stabbing sting as a sword runs through the lump one last time.

The men turn, and Harry immobilizes them with a simple spell. It is far too late for the fallen man – Saguta is his name – who hails from the same lands that Hogun is from. The man leaves with Harry's blessings, and the body is stowed away in dimensional pocket for a proper and respectful disposal.

The group of soldiers undergo a quick swipe of the mind, and Harry reconciles their knowledge with his understanding of the canyons from his probing tendrils of magic.

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He is unable to find rest in sleep tonight.

The nights are when he feels more vulnerable than the other hours. The Jinni Devil is of no use to him in the night, as are his mortal subordinates, who grow weary in the night. The safest place is his stronghold, but its narrow hallways are far too small to house the great monstrosities that pass as his guards.

It is then when Mogul feels the chill upon his spine at the silky voice that calls his name.

"_Mogul._ Otherwise known as Mystic Mogul. Warlock Supreme. _Prince_ of _Darkness_."

The enchanted sword flies to his hand, and Mogul readies himself, "Who are you? Show yourself!"

There is a shift in his vision – as the air shimmers into a silvery fabric – and a man emerges from the darkened room like a shadow stretching into existence against the light. Mogul takes in the paleness of the man who is clad in nothing but the most ominous shades of black-green leathers and gold adornments.

And he laughs, because he has been waiting for so long – he has finally caught a worthy catch.

_Yet another to enslave and add to his rank of guards._

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Hogun walks in the flickering shadows of the tunnels, keeping out of the glow of the torches that line the walls. The minute trail of near-invisible indicators will lead him to the dungeons are scattered on the ceiling. There is a brief thought that he tries to squash down as soon as it surfaces, but it latches on mercilessly, and builds the fear in his gut.

"_My, my_. Look at what I've found, scuttling through the halls," his heart stutters in his chest, and he turns to the source of the voice, to see a woman dressed in green. Her eyes narrow at the sight of him, and her calculating gaze scans him up and down, "vermin come to free his own?"

The ground gives way, and he lets himself be swallowed by the darkness.

The last thought that Hogun has is that he will most probably see his brother out on those pastures that he has called home for all his life.

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Mogul has always found a sense of _greatness _and _belonging_ in the creation of terror on the face of another. He knows it to be wrong in all sense of the word, but he has always revelled in the sheer exhilaration that it brought. It is how he remembers his _sire_ and _dam_ – bruised, bloodied and soiled in their own waste. He remembers his sister with tears in her eyes, clutching at his hands with her own mangled ones, gratitude in her eyes for saving her from the very _things_ that should have protected her from the ugliness of life.

He has risen above anyone and everyone, quashing their ability to overthrow him. He has grown _strong_. He has grown _powerful._ He has the _right_ to make everything in Yggdrasil quail under his might.

_But_ _this_ _man_. For a moment Mogul is unsure if he even can be counted as a _person_, or even a _living being_. The strange mockery of a living thing who bats away his advances with the enchanted sword, who waves away the magical destruction of his greatest treasures like it is nothing more than dust on his clothes.

Nevertheless, Mogul is not out of moves. He has one final one, perfected with the deaths of the mightiest warriors that he has faced. No man, even one with impenetrable defences, can fight against a war that goes on in their very insides.

His aim is true, and Mogul smothers the grin when the vial shatters against the armour, coating the man in the most insidious substance that Mogul himself has ever seen.

The Spotted Plague.

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Harry has very nearly forgotten this sensation; white-hot, crippling pain. The liquid burns wherever it lands, tarnishing the metal of his armour and seeping through the protective leather layers to burn at his skin. It scorches a trail as it courses through his veins, reminiscent of a Blood Boiling Curse.

_It eats away at him, devouring his insides._

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**Terribly sorry about the cliff-hanger. It was the best place to end the chapter IMHO, and this arc will be concluded in the next chapter, I swear.**

**Sophie has raised a point, that 'Haraldrson' is incorrect. I have changed it to Haraldsson as suggested, but I will keep Harry's 'Hjortrson' because it is absolutely peppered in all the chapters. I will be doing a major revamp in the (far, far) future.**

**I've set up a tumblr account (with the same username), to post those original bits of ideas (and bad writing) that were the keystones to Transliterations. No spoilers there to future chapters though. **

**Looking forward to next week. I can practically taste the freedom now.**


	9. Chapter 9

**The final chapter for the Mogul of the Mystic Mountain arc(?). I'll be linking the future chapters with this arc.**

**More plot thingies in this chapter, mild suggestive themes, blood, witchcraft & wizardry, and gore.**

**This chapter has not been proofread at all yet. I'll only have the chance to do so when I have an excess of free time. More explained in the post-script of this chapter.**

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_Before we let go of things, there is that sole moment that we grasp it the tightest._

_And then… we let it go._

_Living is instinctual to all beings._

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He cannot die, but that does not mean that he cannot _suffer_.

He cannot die, but that does not mean that he cannot fall into the machinations of another.

There is acid in his veins. It blooms in brilliant agony all over the surface of his skin, and it sinks its barbed thorns deep in his marrow. Harry has long since lost count of the times that he has cursed his human-Ӕsir constitution but this is the most vehement episode. Death hovers over him, providing him a focal point with which to keep his consciousness.

"Your resistance is promising – I shall expect a sweet harvest when the plague takes over your very mind, Nameless One. Just like the seiðmenn who bore me the Jinni Devil, or the men that will soon be my well-trained legion of Demon-Riders."

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The floor is rough and foul under his cheek, but it is not that which wakes Hogun. It is the pain in his ankle that stabs him awake, but it is the realization that spears cold dread into his heart. He is not alone in this pitch black darkness, surrounded by rot and decay.

Something large lies in this cavernous room, and its breath rumbles the floor with dankness. The smothering despair is lifted when he feels fresh air, coming in the direction opposite that of the unknown beast.

He reaches out blindly in the direction away from the massive beast, trying to get as much distance as possible by inching along on his belly. He touches something odd, and his exploratory touches leave him recoiling in disgust when he realizes that he has stuck his hand into an eye socket ripe with flesh and wriggling maggots. The sick threatens to heave out his mouth, but Hogun swallows the bile. He grits his teeth, and pushes the skull away as silently as possible before moving again. It is painful journey, because his crawl along the gritty ground scores the skin of his forearms, and he discovers that his ribs are more bruised than his initial estimate.

But still, he reaches the sliver of an opening after it all, and the somewhat fresh air makes it worth the journey. It feels like the last few breaths that he will ever have.

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Mogul lifts his attention from the man writhing on the floor to Shezada, who glides into the room with all the grace of a queen.

"I found a rat in your palace, dear brother," she comments by way of conversation, before turning her attention to his latest conquest, "but I see you have found another."

"Not vermin, this one. This one is a _hunting dog_. Or will be, once the Spotted Plague is done with him," there is a twisted sense of vindication, as he delivers a vicious kick to the fallen man. The pain that runs up his own leg feels _good_, pleasurable even, because it washes away the crippling sense of fear that he would have lost everything to this man. The guards will know how to take care of his… latest conquest without getting infected, so Mogul allows his attentions to wander.

"Lucky us then, _dear _brother," her smile is viciously serpentine, but she allows him to guide her out to the throne room to gloat… amongst other things.

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He is bound to an iron cross; arms stretched perpendicular to his body, and tight ropes bind him in a continuous coil from ankles to kneecaps. His fingers are clenched so tight that his palms are slick with blood, but the pain does not beat the cell-deep agony induced by the venom-plague. He has blacked out several times unknowingly – jolted into awareness by fresh waves of pain – but it hasn't been long, because the blood pooling in his upward facing palms has yet to overflow.

Micro-blackouts, then.

The rock surface of his tiny cell is counterpoint to his heated blood, and there is nothing else except for the flickering firelight beyond the tiny window of the door to see by. And for all the obsession of ridding the palace of vermin by Mogul and his sister, the dungeons are a thriving location for pests.

The rodents have got over their initial wariness, and have been sniffing about his boots. The chains do not have enough give to shoo them away when they nibble at the leather of his boots. A drop of blood falls from his palm, and Harry watches glassy-eyed as a rat moves over to investigate the sticky liquid.

In retrospect, it is the defining moment that sends his heart dropping through the void once again.

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Abu Dakir walks the hallways, searching for the thorn in his master's side. The boy has somehow escaped from the trap dungeon and by default a bloody death by the crushing maws of Mutasaurus. The boy shouldn't have escaped far, crawling on his belly like a worm. There will be a reward from all of this – he thinks – as he spots a dark shadow along the length of the wall that does not flicker along with the undulating firelight.

And the best way to reap it is to borrow a page from his Master's book – the boy will get to see his countrymen… and forever be one of them, serving under his master.

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All the other vermin have scurried back to the hole where they crawled out from, except for the one which had lapped at his blood. It writhes and hisses, tortured. Harry doesn't need a spotlight to see that it is shifting under its skin – the sharp splinter of thin bones rupturing flesh – and feels it die. And even from beyond Death, it struggles, warps… mutates.

It dies twice more, and Harry feels sick to his insides when the soul shatters, the leaking silver turning to rancid grey before his eyes. It seems like a sordid attempt at the imitation of life, with nothing but dark threads of puppetry. And now that he has felt the _wrongness_ of it all, he senses the _rest. _But it is merely a good illusion – something else, someone else lies beneath that darkness – and Harry knows that Mogul is not aware of his _creations_ that he claims to be his own.

He unclenches his hands despite the wretched pain, and begins to pull at strands of seiðr.

He has to stop this before it goes further.

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The pleasure of it all is barely disrupted when he feels one thin cord of control snap. It is common for his works in progress to self-terminate – merely survival of the fittest. So he sinks back into the sensation of slick pleasure and the sounds. But then more of his puppet strings snap; like mooring ropes snapping from a great ship in an even greater storm, the recoil snaps him back out from drowning in decadence.

He jolts from the bed, and begins to dress, despite the phantom presses of lips that linger on his skin.

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The foot to his jaw and ribs have left a throbbing hot mess of pain, and Hogun groans when the guards shove him to the floor. His boots are painfully constricting his now swollen ankles, but Hogun scrabbles to his hands and knees in order to reorient himself.

It was his original destination, to free his countrymen after all. There is no one to rescue, Hogun thinks, and he will die in his futile attempt. His eyes recognize the warm colours of the natural colours derived from his homeland, but his heart stops are the monsters that wear them. Alien muscles bulge from under torn fabric, and wicked claws and horns adorn their bodies. All of them have their heads angled at him, nostrils wide and inhaling air. Scenting him like mere prey. The far wall crumbles like ash, and snarls colour the air at the intrusion of a meal.

The lack of adequate light is not a factor, because Haraldr Hjortson _glows_ with a bewitching luminescence. Emerald fire burns in those eyes, silver gleams in his hands, and Hogun watches in horror as the man carves the knives into his flesh before turning the blades onto the chests of Hogun's countrymen with no hesitation.

Perhaps the greatest monster of all the monsters in this dungeon, he thinks, is the man who has saved him. The fear paralyzes him, and his mind watches numbly as sharp blades and feline grace fells everyone else around him. Booted feet stand before him, and Hogun registers the metal tang of blood as slick hands help him up onto his protesting ankles.

Hjortson's cheeks are strangely wet with tear tracks – not a monster after all – and he whispers something that removes the pain from his senses and the nausea from his stomach. And from behind his once-again saviour, the felled creatures begin to clamber to their feet, even with the gaping wounds that should have been fatal.

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Harry grits his teeth at the sheer disgust and sense of loss that roils up in his stomach – there is nothing left to throw up – the souls of these men are no longer beyond salvation, shattered and oily black things that even Death refuses to touch. The same crushing force is on his soul, threatening to undo all the threads that hold him together, threatening to end all that he has ever known.

_Green eyes, blinding smile. "Father!" Ink-black curls under his chin, "I want to learn how to fight, father."_

There is only one way to end this madness, and he doesn't know if he will even survive it; his limbs are only moving with the steel-grip of seiðr threads.

It is that moment that Mogul enters.

It is _impossible_, that the man still stands. Mogul can feel the plague build-up coursing through veins – the man should have been helpless in a flood of his own fluids, sprouting monstrosities. The man turns his gaze on Mogul – and all that comes to mind is verdant fires blazing in the night – and there are fingers sifting through his mind, and a voice that says, "You thought yourself whole."

Hogun watches, as the man who has killed an entire country _screams_. Shrieks of pure agony that stop even the monsters in their tracks.

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"You thought yourself whole."

It shatters everything, that one sentence.

The layers are thin. The layers are thin and numerous, laid so thick that no one would have noticed that each and every layer was a lie. He has fed everyone lies and deceit; everyone as well as himself. But the emerald eyes have burnt away everything, and Mogul now sees himself for the pathetic creature that he really is.

He would rather die a thousand deaths than see the dredged memories, but the more he sees, the more he realises that he has never been more than a puppet made to believe that he was the master of his machinations. The warm smiles of his father and mother, strong arms braced over him as they protected him from bone-breaking blows. He had wished and hoped and prayed for the power to _kill _and _murder_ and _slaughter_ those who had _dared_. Wanted their blood splashed across the floor.

And his summoned monster had granted his wish in return for his sister. He gained knowledge and power and prestige, fashioning a golem in the likeness of his sister from scraps of bone and his own blood. He killed and sacrificed as part of his contract – tricked himself into thinking that he was the master of his own fate. Created servants through fear and intimidation. Fashioned an army from prisoners. Carved a kingdom from blood, bone and bodies. A kingdom of golems, fashioned from his memories of living in the village.

It has been a long journey, and there are many hurts and aches from stumbling around in a blindfold, lead like a common beast of burden by that very monster that he had summoned.

And now retribution had come and opened his eyes. Mogul sees no warrior now – just a broad shouldered man, standing with a matronly woman, a girl with lovely eyes. All three are dark haired and olive-skinned. All three have been dead for very long. There is a boy that stands with them, and Mogul thinks that he sees himself in that boy.

Boy Mogul steps forward and Mogul grasps the tiny outstretched hand.

And knows no more but peace.

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The screaming stops and Hjortson steps forward. Hogun blinks, and suddenly there is no tall imposing devil bedecked in armour; just a scrawny boy in peasants' clothes stepping toward Mogul. Shaking hands reach towards the boy's, and then Mogul falls over dead.

The image warps, and then Haraldr Hjortson returns, looking sick and pale. He raises an arm as if to inspect it, and Hogun sees wicked claws emerging from scaled hands. A panicked sound escapes his throat, and Hjortson looks at him. Really _looks_ at him. As if he had not realised that Hogun was still alive.

"You have to leave. Now," the voice wavers, and Hjortson falters. A wicked claw breaks through the thigh from behind, and Hogun feels the words of protest die in his throat. The man stands, staring into Hogun's eyes despite the pain of the blow. Hogun sees the path out of the labyrinth of a castle, imprinted into his memory. He floats in the memory, watching as his feet take him down hallways, hysteria and panic locked away beyond his mental reach.

Hogun runs, down hallways and up stone steps, all the while passing empty pieces of armour filled with ash and sand and rotting flesh. He is barely out from the final corridor when flames roar from the hallways into the sweet dawn air.

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His mind is still frayed – unravelling from the edges, the folds, nothing is spared – from where Death has impressed her influences. His mind had melded with hers for one moment, and She had stretched him across the entire universe in that single instance.

He had been everywhere. Stretched across everything, so much so that he had been… non-existent. There had been a brief moment of infinite panic, that he would be lost forever.

He is lost, still. His mind is sifting through a backlog of one lifetime's worth of memories from Mogul, and there is tragedy woven into it from the very start. The venom still runs in his veins, and his hand hurts something terrible. The claws are wicked things carved from living obsidian, housed in scales the colour of blood, and Harry stares at it until a sound cuts through his hazy mind.

Hogun is sprawled backwards, horror and curiosity and confusion painted on his face. Harry feels his mind work into overdrive – the boy is still alive and untainted by the Spotted Plague, the Plague is contagious through contact with claws and bodily fluids, and there is no lack of snarling mutated men.

"You have to leave. Now," is all he manages to say before one of the monsters runs a clawed hand through his back. The boy's eyes travel to his thigh, where Harry can feel the claw's exit through the front. What Hogun cannot see is that the rest of the claws have pierced four holes through his back – he cannot speak without spraying blood, so there is only the last resort to get the boy out alive.

Mogul's memory of the castle layout is imprinted into the boy's mind, as well as the absolute instructions for the boy to _escape_. Hogun's eyes grow hazy, and Harry watches with relief coating his insides as the boy gets to his feet and wobbles toward the exit.

The rest of the monsters start to stir and the so does the venom in his veins. He closes his eyes, and knows what he must do. Resents what he will leave behind. Regrets the things that he will leave behind. He mourns, even as he hoards seiðr and weaves dense layers within the bowels of the castle of Zanadu.

His tears evaporate with the heat of the fiery stag that stands before him, and then… everything turns to brilliant flame.

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The training hall is not yet rife with activity, and Loki clambers on top of Dáinn to get a better view of the match-ups. Sigmarr will go against Rúni if all goes well, and one of them will be of the six contenders for the grand champion. The men start to fill into the hall, and Loki spares a grin at their boisterous greeting.

"How fares our little Lordling of Chaos?"

There is a competitive round of endless hair-ruffling, with men dodging Dáinn's waving rack of antlers in answer to them teasing Loki, and it continues until the horn sounds for the participants to get ready. There is a sudden ache in his heart during the end of one round, but it is quickly overcome by the roar of the crowd as Sigmarr scores a spectacular win against Rúni.

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He runs two leagues until he is released from the strange spell. His bodily reactions are a belated thing, he thinks, as he heaves up the nausea from the monstrosities and blood and strange things that he has seen. Bile coats his throat in a bitter and painful tang, his vision greys dangerously as he raises his head to regard the chilling sight.

The fires in the distance rage high into the air, a fiery column that still stands out amidst the towering canyon walls and the brightening skies.

Hjortson is nowhere to be seen.

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The venom burns. The plague turns to ash. The leather is nothing more than crisp pieces of black. The knives remain, however, having endured years in the heat of a star. He watches as everything melts away, watches numbly as the white of his bone shows.

Harry wonders if he is truly dead now, his soul lingering by the wayside as Death collects what little remains of the wretched souls, cleansed by the fire. The Fiendfyre was merciful in the fact that it was capable of killing before the pain set in.

Perhaps that was the reason why he was… feeling a chill. A chill roiling in his gut, reminding him that his sensory system should have been vaporised already. Harry frowns, if only mentally, and searches for that fleeting sensation.

_A pulse of paradoxical cold warmth, soothing his empty core._

_Loki._

He may be immortal in all sense of the word, but his world is not. The Heavens have finally granted him a wish of his own, for once in his too-long life… and Harry is determined to make the most of it.

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The suns race each other across the skies, and Hogun watches the skyline. Watches the flaming column with silence, and wonders if it is a figment of his imagination that there are creatures wrought of pure fire dancing within. It is an extravagant funeral pyre, he thinks.

It burns fiercely, and he wishes for the memories of the past months to be like so – to burn away in brilliance and leave nothing behind. Except that he cannot. He feels as though each and every cut is a permanent blight on his soul. Monsters are carved into the insides of his eyelids, and will haunt him in his dreams. He thinks that he cannot see the green grasslands of his homeland without remembering those _haunting_ eyes.

Maybe he'll just sit here, until the world fades away. It hurts too much to move now, and pain spikes through his ribs by the mere act of breathing.

The column of fire dies, and Hogun feels the rumble of the earth beneath his feet, and knows that the death-trap carved into the mountain has collapsed onto itself. The shadows crawl across the bottom of the canyon, and up the walls again, and Hogun knows that he hallucinates when he sees Hjortson.

Knows that it is not him, for the man walks with no hint of injury, dressed in a simple tunic instead of gleaming armour over green and black leathers. Gleaming silver dances between the man's fingers. Watches as impossibly green eyes bore into his mind…

Everything goes black.

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It is that sick sensation of falling that jolts Hogun from sleep. The dream had been vivid – full of blood and death and pain and suffering, and emerald jewels – but it drains quicker than he can remember.

"Oh good, you're awake," the voice is deep, and Hogun belatedly realises that the world swings from side to side, because he is being carried on someone's back.

His throat is a dry, swollen mess, but Hogun manages a decent question, "Where… am I?" It is a good question, but it leads to more. His head hurts, and all Hogun knows… is his own name and nothing else.

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It is a cruel thing to do, he knows, to rid Hogun of his memories. It is not a mere Obliviate, but rather, Harry has surrendered Hogun's memories to Death. The boy has had burdens far too heavy to carry, and has observed events that would damn any male seiðr practitioner within Asgard to immediate death without trial. Harry cannot let a breath of this sort of news escape in Asgard.

_Women have the power to create, and they do so, Haraldr._

_Men have the power to build, and destroy…_

_And when men have the power to create…_

_They create destruction._

The boy's mind is more or less a blank slate, but his muscle-memory remains, as well as his innate intelligence. The gist of the situation has been explained to Hogun – the boy was ambushed by bandits – and Harry removes Mogul's spell of unseeing as they step out of the canyon.

He calls for Heimdall, and feels the familiar lurch of travel.

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Haraldr Hjortson seems to always know what he is thinking, but it is not Heimdall's place to question things of the man who has always steered Asgard from war, even if the man has disappeared into the dark veil over Zanadu. The Shadow General merely shows an exasperated expression at Heimdall's obvious visual sweep and his own lack of armour, "Such is the hospitality of Zanadu's people, Heimdall. I will have to hunt to make my armour again."

The boy on Hjortson's back is a portrait of confusion, and the sluggish bleeding at the side of his head is a clear indicator of his current state. The General sets the boy to lie on the floor with that innate gentleness that the man shows to almost all living creatures, and Heimdall Sees the soldiers thundering down the bridge in response to the flash of light from the Asbrú.

All of them are from Haraldr's personally-trained battalion, and Heimdall marvels at their alertness and impeccable form – it is an hour where most of Asgard lies in deep slumber. It is a dangerous thing, but Heimdall does not have sufficient reason to suspect Haraldr Hjortson yet.

The men exude relief at the sight of their beloved General, and even break out into bawdy jests when it is noted that the man is poorly attired for his station, "Did a maiden charm you of your armour, sir?"

They begin rudimentary treatments on the boy – Hogun – at his orders, and the entire entourage is on their way to the Healer's Chambers within a fraction of the hour. Heimdall returns his Sight to the now unveiled Skornheim – where there is naught by a canyon with a curious sinkhole in the middle of it. It is curious, indeed.

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"Attend to the boy. I am fine," is all the man that they call 'General Hjortson' says to the Healers. Soft, strong hands carry Hogun to the bed, and equally gentle voices lull him into restful slumber.

He is fine. He is _too fine_, in fact. Harry refuses to unclothe himself in from of headstrong Eir, because she has an intimate knowledge of the map of scars that is his body. Scars that no longer exist, because Fiendfyre has burnt everything away, and the remnants of his original magical core have been spent by resurrecting a new body.

What he is now, Harry isn't even sure. No mortal-Ӕsir constitution, he knows. He feels Death a little more closely, hears her humming a little. He has no need for his magical core now, for he sees the strands of seiðr so much more clearly now, when before, he had largely relied on his sense of touch and innate magic.

He slips out of her grasp with a wan smile and an excuse on his lips, because instead of going to the All-father, he returns to his chambers. He has earned at least this freedom with his sacrifices.

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Loki slips out of slumber, mind still foggy with remnants of a dream. There was the hum of his father's voice, awash with seiðr, but Loki feels the haze of his dream instantly wash away with the cool hand that sweeps his hair away from his brow. His eyes snap open with disbelief, quickly greeted with smiling green eyes. His father's long hair is damp under his touch, and when his father grins, Loki knows that this is no dream.

He feels his father's laughter rumble on his cheek, when he presses his face into his father's neck, and his father falls onto his back with the attack. The humming starts again, accompanied with a comforting stroke down his back. It is a story of Hǫðskuldr again, talking to odd creatures, flying with serpentine creatures as large as a hill.

He falls asleep, breathing in his father's clean scent of seiðr and forest. Loki thinks that he has ever been happier, because the Norns have heard his pleading.

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**Note: Hogun, Saguta, Abu Dakir, Mogul and Shezada are characters found only in the Marvel Comics. They are not mythological characters found in Norse Mythology. The elements of the M.M.M. arc are borrowed from the Marvel Universe, modified to fit my own wicked scheming. I do know that Laufey is female in Norse Mythology but I will be following the Marvel gender classification.**

**Another thing of interest: In Norse Mythology, Loki and Odin are blood-brothers. Possibly half-brothers at most. So yes, the number of parallels that I'm drawing between the four sources (HP, Marvel Cinematic & Comic, Norse) are numerous and complex.**

**So here we are again. I'd like to promise another chapter quick, but I'm at the end of my lifecycle as a ward of the educational system. I will be taking my long-awaited vacation before starting work shortly after that. Followed by a graduation ceremony… the order is a bit weird, but that's how things roll here.**

**Filled out the final official forms for my job and rushed out this chapter literally hours before my flight. Leave me a few words – that'll make this trip all the more the sweeter – and I'll see you all as soon as possible.**

**Regards,**

**ikki**


	10. Chapter 10

**It's been an awesome vacation, methinks. Not without its fair share of frustration, because the group that I was travelling with was… rather large and complex. Nevertheless, I shall take it as a primer on how to navigate those lovely places, because I will be back (mark my words).**

**I've been waylaid by many commitments and will be even more so in the foreseeable future. **

**Enough whining, here's the next (really overdue) chapter. Yet to be properly vetted - I uploaded this file from my phone. **

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_Your ancestors called it magic... but you call it science. I come from a land where they are one and the same._

**Thor Odinson to Jane Foster,**

**Marvel's Thor **

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It is not a nightmare, per se;it is a never-ending replay of the events that have transpired. He sees it in his mind's eye, and feels the phantom touches that linger on his skin. He feels Death stepping closer, and hears Her hold a low note. It snaps him out of the remnants of Mogul's memories, that of a broken mind, of being an oblivious puppet.

His son lies asleep, curled up in the silk sheets. The dark sheets remind him of ominous things, and he still cannot shake off the feeling – of shattering souls and cries of the damned – and it sticks to his conscience like oily slick; he disgusts himself because he had been unable to save them.

_something else, someone else lies beneath that darkness_

The dawn light creeps slowly along the bannister, and slowly spills over to splash the walls in golden light. Harry does not even bother to feign surprise when Huginn and Muninn land soundlessly from the shadowed ceiling on the top of his wingback. The stack of parchment lies on the table, arranged to perfection and tied such that the two ravens can play courier to their master. There is not much truth within the report, and what little of it is bloated to give the impression that Harry's week long absence from Asgard was within reason.

Perhaps the All-father should have sent Geri and Freki instead, because the two ravens have a spot of trouble in clearing the bannister. He has an unabashed affection for the lupine creatures anyway. Something that Loki has picked up on, judging by the sheer amount of fur and scent markings on his son's discarded clothing from yesterday. It's a funny thought, wolves, stag and children messing about within the golden walls of Asgard's palace.

Loki stirs upon his shifting, and Harry sets his arm around his son, coaxing his little one back to sleep. This is no time for pondering matters of his jobs, not with his son under his chin and the drowsy warmth of the bed. He sets up barriers upon every opening to his suite of rooms, purges all matters from his mind, and falls into dreamless sleep.

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It is an easy sleep, so much so that Hogun has difficulty in ridding himself of it. He wakes, and wonders where he is – soft linen under his fingers, soft conversation beyond the pale curtains, instead of… some dark and hopeless place that his mind expects.

A fair face peeks through the flowing fabric, and slides the curtain open when she discovers that he is awake. Firm hands checks his limbs, and soft voices bid him to sit up. A warm drink slides down his throat, and they send for someone before laying him back into bed.

But he knows the name, and Hogun feels his heart hammer against its cage. _Haraldr Hjortrson_. There is irrationality that buzzes incessantly - fear and respect and suspicion and trust that resound in his mind, when green eyes come to mind. He feels the fear start to course in his veins like a raging river when booted feet start to echo in the distance, and Hogun finds that he cannot look up when more people enter the room. But instead of a man of statuesque height, it is a child. A small one, who cannot have seen more than five springs.

"Hello, Hogun. I hope that the day finds you better off than yesterday," the voice is soft yet firm, and so very young. It is like the morning sun, and Hogun looks up to see green eyes that seem to be seared into his very memory, "I am Loki Haraldsson."

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Bjort walks away, and Rúni turns the news over in his mind. The diagnosis is good, Rúni thinks, though it is a shame that the youth has subconsiously rejected the treatment for his throat. Rúni watches as young Loki talks with Hogun, the boy speaking to the silent teen, "What would you do with him now, General?"

"I would have him take vows of servitude and loyalty. Put him to work as a spy of Asgard."

Rúni chokes on a breath of air, and the General motions for the Healers to step down from panicking. The man snorts, eyes crinkled in a smile, "What else could I wish for him, Rúni? He is an orphan, with no standing in bloodlines or riches, nothing but a will that has seen him through his ordeals. As long as he has an aspiration that does not involve squandering resources or his own life away, my coffers are open to him," there is a brief silence, "unless he proves himself to be another Volstagg. The man has been trying and failing to eat me into poverty."

Rúni laughs, because it is true, and Volstagg's girth grows more astounding day by day, and moves to talk to Hogun about the General's offer as Loki runs to his father. At the end of the day, there is only tiredness in his bones, and the burn of regret in his throat, for doubting the man that he has looked up to for so many years.

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"You are sure?" It is the umpteenth time that the soldier known as Rúni has asked him that, so Hogun levels an unwavering gaze at the man until the other shrugs nonchalantly in surrender.

Yes, he is sure. Sure enough to throw away any type of apprenticeship of Hogun's choosing. It seems right, because in his heart of hearts, Hogun owes the man an immeasurable debt.

"That was your last chance to turn back," Rúni grins like there is some hilarious joke, "you have hereby lost the right to whine, complain or cry about anything related to the military from this point on, young one."

Hogun cannot bring himself to smile in response. Not with a half remembered dream of verdant eyes burning in the dark.

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Frigga is glad for dark smudge that is Haraldr in her golden halls once again, because he is the safest here, and Loki is happiest when his father is within sight. He seems paler than she remembers, but the man has always been in stark contrast to his dark armour.

"I don't suppose that that the weeds have flourished much in a week, my Queen."

Frigga allows a rueful smile to pass her lips, "You would be right, Haraldr," and watches as his eyes wander to an uninhabited corner of her hall once again, as if something invisible has caught his attention. There is something that haunts him, some spectre of the mind that he has brought back from the bowels of Skornheim, Frigga thinks, which Haraldr is unable to shake off.

His heart is a cluttered thing, but the threads that he plucks from the air are the clearest yet, even more than the crystalline healing waters of Asgard. She does not know what has happened in the shaded lands of Skornheim, only that Haraldr has rid the land of the ominous veil at a great personal cost. Frigga tries in vain to weave at her loom, but her eyes stray constantly to him. He is her closest confidant, and yet she cannot be the same for him.

Eventually he leaves with a giggling son hanging from a shoulder, and takes away his crystal-like weave and black clothes along with him, leaving nothing but a dark shadow of helplessness in her heart.

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Death is a constant distraction; her unintelligible murmurs and sighs are sounds that no one else can hear. She is not trying to communicate with him, Harry knows - akin to someone entertaining themselves in an extremely self-contained world - much like those who had endured far too much torture.

There is some respite, however, in the form of his not-so-tiny godson. The young Prince rushes to his side, seated between the All-father and himself, while Loki sits on the right of Harry. Thor is a cheerful child, who somehow has lungs larger than his ribcage, but Harry still smiles and laughs at the young boy's stories.

Tonight, both his son and his godson will spend a good portion of the hour after the meal coaxing a story out of him, Harry knows. Perhaps a story about discovering one's heritage, of talking and persuasion, of talking enormous serpents out of taking lives.

He has had enough of Death today.

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The pattern of the weave is an improvement of Angrboða's original work, and Harry carefully secures the length of cloth against his own body. He whispers for the magic to do its work, and sets a thick leather cord between his teeth as it does so.

The memories of his wounds begin to carve themselves into his flesh, though the pain is not as unbearable. There is no song of swinging metal blades coated in flesh-eating venom, acidic liquids, and no burning splashes of magma.

The woven fabric falls away, leaving nothing but a body covered in a map of healed wounds. Merely superficial wounds compared to the ones that he has gained over his interminably long life. No pledges of blood and glory made of tears and honour on these wounds.

Odin's blood no longer forms shackles within his veins. Duties to neither king nor kingdom, though he still has bonds. Bonds borne of heart and fondness that tie him to Asgard still; son and godson and Queen, men who do not question his intentions, people who share heartfelt smiles…

One vow still stands, even after all these years. Renewed with each turn of the decade in opulent ceremonies, spoken without guile, because the All-father does not accept anything less.

_For the good of Asgard._

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There is a piece of paper tied around the base of Dáinn's horns today. The stag holds still as Loki unknots the thread, and chuffs in contentment when Loki rubs behind the velvet-soft ear as a reward for his patience. The creamy paper is thick, the ink is a sharp black against it, and Loki grins when he realises that he cannot read the message off the bat.

It is another of his father's puzzles.

The message is somewhere in between a picture and a rune, Loki thinks, fingers tracing the oddly shaped characters. And the string of characters is the first clue.

There is a commotion from somewhere near the entrance of the training hall, and Volstagg knows enough to expect something out of the ordinary soon. True to his anticipation, there is the staccato of hoof beats and the sound of laughter echoing from the main door, followed shortly by a flash of white and black.

The noise makes Hogun look up from oiling his blade, and the quirk of his eyebrow is a silent question. Volstagg laughs, remembering that the young man has not been in Asgard long enough to learn its peculiar rhythms. But the boy will know in time, so Volstagg just shrugs.

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A volery of birds take flight from the forest below, and Harry leans out of the window to take a better look. There is a hint of white antlers poking out from the under-brush and Harry grins; his son is taking to the challenge like a duck to the water.

"Hmmm. Something of interest, General?" the curiosity in that voice is of a vexing kind, and Harry turns his head and watches as the vizier - who harbours hope to be Grand Vizier in the near future - flinches in response to the grin on his face.

"There is always something of interest in this life that I lead, Tarakis. Shall we return to continue the meeting?"

The meeting will be wrapped up and all the loose ends tied faster than the Council can stop to think. The treacheries of the treacherous have already been caught, though there are others that still remain. The man hides something still, and Harry is determined to find out what it is that slithers silently in the deepest recesses of the man's mind.

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Loki is on his third note when Thor arrives in the dining hall for the midday meal. The coded message is the most difficult of the lot, and he has already gone through two hastily scrawled ciphers which had proved promising and then flopped uselessly when compared with his father's code.

The papers are carefully set into his inner pockets when the Prince roars his greetings to the entire hall. The guard accompanying the young Prince today is Volstagg - the Voluminous, as the jesting between guards go - and Hogun, who shadows the Guards as they go about their daily duties, observing and learning silently.

But there is someone new today, standing nearly completely behind Thor. Burnished gold hair cropped short, and with only one blue eye peeking out at him, it is something that seems familiar to Loki somehow.

He stands from his seat, "Hello, my Prince. Volstagg, Hogun, and..."

Volstagg nudges the boy forward, but the boy literally jumps at the touch so Loki steps forward with one palm upturned, "I am Loki Haraldsson."

The boy swallows soundly, and Loki fortifies his smile when an unexpectedly clammy hand grasps his own, "Fandral."

Just a name, with no lineage in the introduction. Loki lets the matter be, and sets the questions away for later, because the Court seems to have finished with their meeting - his father is escorting Queen Frigga across the hall, and they make their way to the table in soft conversation.

Beyond the blue eyes and the blonde hair of the boy, Harry knows. That the boy shows that the blood from the House of Odin runs in his veins; a bastard son, though the label is something that leaves a _foul _aftertaste.

Fandral has been set up to gain the Prince's favour, and it will only be when the boy has made a name for himself as one of the steadfast friends of the Prince, that the father will step forward. The machinations of the Court is a cruel thing, and the House of Odin is the cruelest of the twelve in the never-ending struggle to stay in the King's favour.

To stay the top _dog_.

Frigga tightens her grip on his arm, and Harry turns his head to grin while continuing to escort her where the children sit, "Yes, my Queen?"

"Plotting something again, Haraldr, are you not?"

Harry gives a mournful look at her knowing expression, "_Always_ so quick to suspect me of mischief, my Queen. I am wounded by your sharp suspicions. But a special occasion is imminent, so how could I not?"

He sweeps her to the table before she can question him further, ruffles his godson's hair, and shares a grin with his son.

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Loki laughs, delighted by the sight of his father crouching before him.

"Come on now, son of mine. I am already growing older by the moment," his father moans, and Loki jumps on the opportunity.

Literally. His father gives a loud _oof_, and lifts Loki up from waist to shoulders with a mighty 'heave-ho'. His hands are wrapped around his father's head, and Loki can feel the rumbles of his father's laughter against his own legs, "One day I will have to say no, little one. When you are far too big and far too heavy to ride on my shoulders."

Loki rises to thrilling heights when his father straightens, even higher than Dáinn's antlers.

"That one day is not today, Father," he points out, and is left giggling and breathless after a tickling session for his cheek.

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"Show me what you have there, son."

His son grins, and Harry feels the swelling pride in himself. There is a pocket dimension sewn into the folds of his son's clothes, and Loki giggles when he pulls the items out of from the hems of shirt sleeves and inner pockets like a true magician.

First is a sulphurous rock from Asgard's healing springs, followed by a selection of stones from the crystallized caves of Asgard. The last is a long, white bone, picked clean and pocked all over with teeth marks - scavenged from the long-forgotten stashes of Odin's lupine familiars.

The smile is in his voice, "Well done."

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Loki coaxes the fire to take hold, under the watchful eyes of his father. There are many other methods to produce fire - sparks to ignite tinder and subsequently kindling, friction to garner heat and smoke - but this is something on an infinitely smaller scale.

He has done this before, and then there is the slow bloom of heat and light in the cradle of his palm. His father gently guides his wrist to the flat dish where the bone lies, "Careful now. You need a little more air to sustain it. Feed in a little more seiðr as well."

Loki does so, and feels his father lift the flame to the bone. The flame grows a little brighter when his father handles it - taking well to the bone.

Father allows his hand to draw back away from the steadily growing flame. The heat of the flame is seemingly extinguished with a wave of his father's hand, and Loki looks on from the invisible shield as the white of the bone burns to the colour of midnight. His father motions with his palm, and Loki watches as an invisible hand wrought from seiðr presses upon it, the charred bone now nothing more than a little molehill of ash.

"This is known as _bone black_. Some of the ladies use it to line their eyes, and the artists and scribes use it for the stark black lines in their masterpieces and calligraphy. There are a great many uses for it as well, such as the removal of poisons, but today it will be none of those I've mentioned today."

Loki frowns, and his father merely ruffles his hair, "No sulking now, little one. I promise that there will be a worthy ending to this lesson."

Next are the rocks from both the cave and the healing springs, both crushed without ceremony with invisible tendrils of seiðr.

The fine powders are gathered into separate dishes, and his father shows him how to sort out the ratios of bone black to crystal to sulphur.

There is nothing magical about it, even when Loki is told to wrap tendrils around the mixture. He feels it in his mind's eye; the coarseness and grit, but then his father sends enough force between two grains to spark. He feels the ignition - sheer power in the form of light, heat and power, felt even through the barrier that his father has put up.

It is an inexplicable thing made explicable - his father telling him how some powders can become explosions, his magic showing him how the explosions come from the different types of piled dust when packed tightly.

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There will be a celebration tonight - the start of an annual celebration that had been discontinued in the times of war. There is joy and anticipation, and Loki knows a secret. Loki runs ahead of his father, through the underbrush and onto the path that bisects the tiny plot of forest within the castle... right in front of the Queen.

Loki freezes, even though he knows that he should be greeting the Queen and her handmaidens.

There is a furrow between the Queen's brow, and Loki shrinks away from her outreached hand. She grasps his shoulder gently, and sweeps his cheek with her free hand. The finger comes away with a faint dusting of bone black, and the fingers that comb his hair comes away with more than a dead leaf, and Loki feels sheepishness at his state of presentation.

Frigga looks down onto Haraldr's son, pondering the events that could have led to the little boy turning up in the middle of the tiny orchard looking like a wayward child gallivanting in the mud and bushes, when Haraldr himself emerges from the forest looking no better. The giggle escapes her throat, unexpected but not unwelcome.

There are leaves hanging to his cloak and hair, breeches and boots stained with mud, and the same black powder staining his brow and fingers. This... Haraldr Hjortrson is a rare sight, a far cry from the immaculate General that most of Asgard normally sees, but many Realms better than the blood-stained version of the War General that Frigga has glimpsed before.

Loki escapes to his side, and Haraldr simply smirks at them before bowing. The bow is coupled with seiðr, which wipes away everything except for the wicked curve of lips and the amusement reflected in emeralds, "My Queen, and fair Ladies of the Court, pardon our quick departure, for we have much to accomplish tonight."

He straightens, leather and metal immaculate once again in the sunlight -a strong wind buffets the crown of the trees, and when Frigga looks back, both father and son have vanished along with the gust.

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The young prince is now under the supervision of the scribes, and Hogun finally has the opportunity to sate his curiosity - provided that Volstagg can lift his head far enough from the spit-roasted boar. There has been nothing but excitement and anticipation flooding the halls for the entire week, and Hogun has reached his tolerance for Volstagg's knowing demeanour whenever a flurry of commotion resounds nearby.

"What... is this celebration about?"

There is a blatant smile on the elder guard's face, and Hogun very nearly regrets cracking under the strain of curiosity.

"Ah... The origin is unclear - the events happened long before my time, and there are precious few records that are allowed even to those residing within the Palace; and though we aesir are long lived, but our memories are not. Some say that the celebrations are the result of a permanent truce with the vanir or a great war won over another Realm, others say that it was the celebration of King Odin's brother coming into the world."

"There are no brothers to the King."

Volstagg grows somber, "As I said, it is nothing but hearsay. It is taboo to venture further into this line of conversation - I merely share what I know of it."

Hogun's lips are pressed into a hard line, and he nods in acknowledgement.

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The Prince has all the makings of a leader and a hero, Volstagg thinks, as he follows the children around on their 'adventures'. The young outlander Fandral is quickly pulled into Thor's paces as a partner in mischief and troublemaking. Loki is conspicuously absent from the adventures in the days of late, and the father-son duo have offered nothing but cryptic words and smiles to the soldiers - outside of the customary sound thrashings during the combat sessions with the soldiers.

He lets the two fair-haired boys run free into the Great Hall, keeping an eye on them long enough to make sure that they have reached the table where the King and Queen of Asgard are seated. His duty is done for now, and Volstagg makes a beeline for the table where his fellow guards have already started feasting.

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Fandral thinks that he has never seen so much food in his life. There is an excess of it, all of the dishes seemingly competing with each other, mouth watering already just by appearance. This is not Asgardian fare, but Prince Thor seems to be used to the sheer volume and variety of it all.

The Allfather is at the head of the table, Prince Thor on one side, and Fandral right beside him. On the other side of the table sits the Queen, followed by a boy about the Prince's age - Loki, if Fandral recalls properly - and then the General Haraldr Hjortrson. The man stands out in the sheer tawny backdrop that is the great dining hall, as well as the festive colours that even the servants are wearing.

"The food is especially sumptuous tonight, Haraldr," the Queen's gentle tones draw Fandral's attention, and he directs his gaze from where Loki spears a piece of meat to feed his father, fist clenching as something in his heart tightens.

"Volstagg's critique is invaluable, despite the fact that he eats his weight in gold, and the kitchens have much experience in the mass preparation of meals, My Queen," he pays no further interest to the conversation - it is of no import in his report back to his... sire. The feast continues in its festivities, with drink and food all around - even on the floor and walls of the great hall.

Fandral has had enough of the food and sweet juices that run freely; the food sits in his stomach like a rock. But the hall quiets all of a sudden, and Fandral jerks his head toward the furthest end of the table. Men and women are looking just as confused as he, and though their mouths move, barely any sound is issued.

The All-father stands at this moment, and makes an address to all in the Hall. His voice rings and echoes through the halls and through Fandral himself, proclaiming the might of Asgard and its peoples. The sheer prestige of standing at the top of Yggdrasil, protector of the weak and helpless.

It sounds true and convincing - but it is nothing more than a gilded lie. The weak and helpless are not present in these golden halls of Asgard to give voice to their plight; they scurry about in hidden passages and barely sustain themselves in the shadowed corners of the Realm.

The lies eventually end with the conclusion of the All-father's speech - and the deafening cheer rises out of throats. There is movement that catches Fandral's eye then - Hjortrson's pointer finger directed towards the end of the hall.

Something shoots out, brighter than the starlight against the dark night. It leaves a falling tail of gold dust, silencing the crowd, and _pings_ against the wall at the far end. There is something like panic and horror when the wall _shudders_ and _heaves_, and there are frightened yells and shrieks when a golden bilgesnipe emerges from the walls.

It stands on thin air, shedding gold dust with each movement. It shakes enormous scaly horns, and bellows a deep guttural sound that Fandral has never heard from any creature before. Hooves thunder across the invisible platform as it rushes down the hall and out between the columns.

Everyone is frozen for a moment, but the Prince shouts and then scrambles out of his chair to follow the ethereal beast. The rest follow, and Fandral is dragged along with the Prince.

The bilgesnipe of molten gold _runs_.

Nimble feet pump the monstrous creature upwards, navigating some unseen cliff face. It stands at the top for a heartbeat, horns shaking at the sky, and then takes a leap. It is gone in a breathtaking shower of gold dust.

Loki counts down in his head, and grins when the first volley goes up, balls of tightly packed powder and metal dust flying higher than even the surrounding mountains. The walls are bathed in orange, and the falling lights briefly coalesce into the native creatures of Asgard. There are wolves and birds of prey that shimmer briefly, and the newer '_fireworks_' quickly outshine those. There are sounds of surprise and awe as the crowd on the overhang below watch the dueling stags.

There is a hand on his hair, and his father whispers, "Looks much better than I imagined, right?" Loki giggles - it is many Realms different from the reedy scrawls that his father has drawn on parchment. Countless more sky explosions rumble through Asgard, but it is definitely the last one that is Loki's very favorite.

There is a winged serpent, resplendent in silver and emerald scales - the people cry _Níðhöggr! _- that flies skyward, and shatters into a thousand million silver shards, floating downward like enchanted snowflakes. His eyes are caught by two in particular; shining brighter than all the others, and Loki places his hands together to cup them. They are cool to the touch, and when the light fades, his breath is caught in his chest, as his father whispers, "These are yours to wield."

They are the half of his father's famed quadruple daggers.

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**I've added a short paragraph in Stochastic, because someone asked whether Loki knows magic. The answer is 'yes, how could he not?'**

**The next chapter will not appear for many a while, seeing as I have not quite decided on which story arc to get on first, much less start writing.**

**Been thinking about importing all Transliterations-related stuff to AO3. The format there seems to be more conducive to world-building, but we'll see how it goes, yeah? There's a lot of vetting and formatting left to be done for the posted chapters, and some loopholes to be welded shut.**

**On a completely different note: My mind is starting to wander after watching Pacific Rim. Something like... a mashup and some other stuff. Sounds fatal to Transliterations, so... I'll just leave that for later.**

**So... review! Tell me things, ask me stuff.**


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